


Singing into the Void

by ResidentOwl



Series: Waiting for a Reply [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Corvo/Jessamine (Past), F/M, Fever Dreams, Gen, Guilt, Hallucinations, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Daud, Memories, Parent Corvo Attano, Poison, Rat Plague | The Doom of Pandyssia, Regret, The Flooded District Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6776050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ResidentOwl/pseuds/ResidentOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Time and time again, faced with the ones who conspired to destroy me, you chose mercy over vengeance. You chose mercy, but was it just, or was it vindictive? My dear, Lord Protector: disgraced, dishonored, and a failure. You would be better suited as an assassin if not for the fact that you are blind to the blood staining your hands.”</p><p>     Jessamine leaned down, the shadows looming behind her and dancing like firelight, and placed a delicate hand on Corvo’s cheek, wiping a tear that escaped down the side of his face with a sharp-nailed finger. She whispered, like all those moments stolen between duty and rest, secreted away between one breath and the next, a perverted parody of a tender moment between lovers.</p><p>     “It was not mercy that stayed your blade, Corvo. Do not use me as an excuse for your choices any longer.”</p><p>     Corvo didn't dare look away.<br/>...</p><p>Response to an old kmeme:<br/>Samuel is not an alchemist and a half-vial is still enough for a prolonged, painful death without treatment. When Corvo begins to deteriorate while detained by the Whalers, Daud is faced with a difficult choice: does his desire for penance over the Empress' murder extend to saving the life of her Lord Protector?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Consequences of Mercy

It was supposed to be a celebration. All the _Loyalists_ gathered together, even quiet Cecelia, although she simply lurked in the fringes with a bottle of Old Dunwall, ready to refill any glass as necessary, as they toasted and drank together.

Corvo felt it was a bit early; he had dealt with the traitors, but that didn’t mean it was over. The end was in sight, Emily was safe and close at hand for Corvo to protect and there were few player left to keep Emily from ascending to the throne with all the pomp and circumstance awarded to crownings. 

Corvo took the gut-rot brandy offered to him with a tense smile, his face tight in impatience and exhaustion. 

He could feel the grime and filth clinging to his clothes from when he’d crawled through the river weeds to stay out of sight of the guards, adrenaline and the vindictive feeling of accomplishment still echoed in his veins from when Burrows’ confession projected across Dunwall from the city announcement. 

The folding sword clipped to his belt remained clean, despite how his calloused fingers had itched and trembled around the hilt when he caught a glimpse of Burrows. It took no small amount of self-control to stay his blade, but it was satisfying enough to see Burrows hung by the rat bitten rope of his own making. 

Holding the glass close, but not taking a sip, Corvo had the sudden desire to Blink upstairs to Emily’s room and wrap her in a tight hug. They were going _home_ soon. As much as Dunwall Tower could be home after Jessamine’s blood stained the gazebo and the shadow of her memory walked the halls. Returning would be a symbol, that they were healing and moving forward in her memory rather than despite of it. 

So the man behind Death’s Mask downed the alcohol without batting an eye at the burning sensation; Havelock watched him with rapt attention. The quicker they were done celebrating, the sooner he can visit Emily in her room and hopefully sleep for a few hours without interference from the Void or nightmares of _her_ voice. 

Within a handful of minutes, he knew something was wrong. 

His head felt heavy, his thought moved at a glacial pace as though fighting through thick river mud. An odd tingling in his fingers and toes had him flexing his hands into trembling fists, his knuckles white and his bitten nails cutting into his palms, but he felt nothing except dull pressure. He rapidly excused himself from he presence of the loyalists, a ringing in his ears deafened any response they might have had.

Staggering up the stairs, Corvo clutched his head in one hand and tried to shake the approaching headache and the sluggishness in his limbs. Something was very wrong, but with the roar in his ears that drowned out his thoughts, he couldn’t think properly. 

Grey had begun to encroach upon the edges of his vision, vicious shadows that pawed restlessly, they bided their time for the opportune moment to strike. There was one thought that pierced through his clouded mind like a terrified scream. 

_Emily. He had to get to Emily._

_He had to keep her safe._

He reached the attic room with all the intent of continuing out the window onto the metal walkway, but his legs gave out with a spasm and he fell to the floor. 

The shadows pounced, and Corvo’s vision went black. 

* * *

Corvo was completely numb.

He listened uncomprehendingly as Havelock, Trevor, and Martin discussed their plans to use his cold corpse for further political machinations. For a long moment, Corvo didn’t even realize he was conscious, let alone understand what the _Loyalists_ were talking about.

Corvo blinked. 

Something was wrong, but he couldn’t remember.

Samuel was crouched in front of him, his mouth moving and his hand waving emphatically to articulate his point; his eyes seemed sad. But his words sounded like they were muffled through water, the wavering of his vision made it hard to concentrate. 

An echo of a memory speared through his sluggish consciousness, “ _Mommy! Get away!” “Corvo_!” Corvo focused, just enough to catch a few words.

“I only gave you half the poison. They were watching me and it was all I can think to do… I think you’re strong enough to survive that. Hopefully, you’ll wake up and find your way out of this cursed city.”

Corvo’s vision flickered, ears ringing in an echo of desperate scream, and he succumbed to the dull roar of the waves that smothered him.

* * *

“This was the one who was with the Empress when she died. Poisoned. Tyvian Stuff.”

Corvo’s vision faded in like a curtain slowly being pulled back. He saw, but he didn’t comprehend. Whaling masks, leather jackets, long gloves; they seemed so familiar and Corvo’s heart seized as if with anger, but he couldn’t place why the sight of the two men made him so _angry, desperate, blood-thirsty—_

_“It is as if there is a cloak around them, and I cannot see through.”_

Jessamine’s voice whispered quietly in his ear, and The Heart beat, once, hard against his chest where it had been tucked away reverently. 

With seemingly innocent words, it all came crashing down. Jessamine’s scream as the assassins in whaling gas masks pinned him against the wall as their leader, _Daud,_ skewered the Empress in front of her daughter, in front of him. The blood pooled around her body as she stuttered her last breath, staining and tainting all it touched. Corvo wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, and she was gone.

“ _Mommy!”_ And her daughter slipped between Corvo’s fingers and into the hands of the assassins.

Corvo’s ears were ringing again, his eye sight swam and dulled as he relived the moment his life and Emily’s life were utterly destroyed. Emily would never be the same. Corvo would never be the same. Without the steady presence of the beloved Empress, Jessamine Kaldwin, Dunwall would never be the same.

They may never recover.

“Amateur work. He might live.”

“That’s up to Daud.”

His eyes slipped shut. 

* * *

The Flooded District almost appeared as a sweet dream. The buildings reflected dully in the water, seemingly well-kept and strong despite the seawater that lapped at the walls and rotted through the floor boards.

The Rudshore District was beautiful once, until the barrier broke, until the Lord Regent turned it into a dumping ground for plague victims, alive or wrapped sloppily in bolts of canvas. Now it was the feeding grounds of the weepers and the desperate. 

The sea was nibbling and tearing at the rotted flesh of Dunwall, soon all that would be left were bones. 

A vague memory teased the edge of Corvo’s mind as his marked hand trailed through the reflections of the once proud structures of the Rudshore Financial District. He had visited several times with his Empress, and once with Emily. There was a celebration to honor Jessamine and a great statue of her was going to be revealed. It was a bold and rather obvious political move funded by a handful of aristocrats, but the people loved a good excuse to celebrate their beloved Empress.

Emily was young and easily excited; she insisted on looking in a few of the stalls that had been set up for the day’s festivities. She stated that as the princess she must know how her citizens celebrate; her silver tongue was just beginning to show. Jessamine laughed and sent her on with Corvo, while she dealt with the political obligations and sweet worded suggestions from the _benevolent_ aristocrats. 

Corvo held her hand through the crowds, a smile curling around the corner of his lips; Emily’s enthusiasm was contagious and she was a ball of energy tugging insistently on his arm. A stout woman from a sweet smelling stall waved as they passed and offered a treat “for his adorable little daughter.” Emily took a bite of the pastry, barely able to fit half the thing in her mouth, sweet juices stained her cheeks.

The treat in her mouth muffled her thanks and exclamation of joy, showering crumbs over Corvo, her court manners completely forgotten in the moment of excitement. Corvo smiled sheepishly and opened his mouth to apologize and thank the baker. 

Seizing the opportunity, Emily shoved the rest of the sweet pastry into Corvo’s mouth. The woman stifled a giggle behind her hand as Corvo proceeded to “thank” Emily and scatter crumbs all over her in retaliation.

Emily laughed joyously, a clear bell ringing beneath the bright sun, and Corvo grinned, his teeth still coated in sugary fruit filling.

The boat rocked beneath Corvo, banishing the bitter sweet memory, but the echo of her laugh seemed to reverberate in the air for a long moment. His stained hand ripped a tear into the idyllic vision of the former proud Rudshore District, of a simpler time where Corvo’s only worries were defending the Empress from knives and guns.

The salt water felt thick and slimy against the palm of his hand, his fingers tingled with pins and needles. It was gnawing at his bones until there was nothing left.

His body was numb. His mind was numb. And he could do nothing as the assassins in whaling masks lifted him out of the boat.

In the end, everything would fall to ruin.

* * *

“I know a great deal, bodyguard.”

_Daud._

Corvo gritted his teeth, his hands shook.

“I recognize those marks of your hand.” 

_You killed her._

“A gift from your friend, the one that talks to you in the dark. Talks to you when you visit his shrines.”

_You killed her._

“I’ve visited those shrines too.” 

Corvo willed his body to move. The sensation of burning nipped at his extremities, and a deep seated ache emanated from the core of his being. His hands clenched into a fist, his nails bit into his palm, but he felt nothing except overwhelming, visceral fury. The rage that tinted his vision dark, that made his hands tremble with the desire to wrap around Daud’s throat, that focused his mind to a single piercing thought. 

_YOU KILLED HER._

“And I know what it felt like to shove a blade into your Empress.”

He wanted to feel Daud’s trachea collapse beneath his punishing fingers, yearned to feel the ghost of his last tainted breath, wanted to see the crushing fear and desperation in his eyes as they glazed over. There was nothing Corvo desired more than to see his rat swarm cruelly rip the flesh from Daud’s bone until there was nothing left, to see him batted around like a toy until he was torn to shreds by the gales commanded at a flick of his wrist, to see him fall beneath the same Outsider’s power he’d coveted for years to further his schemes to exchange coin for blood.

“But I don’t know you, who you are and who you fight for. You’re a mystery and I can’t allow that.” 

Daud stole — _destroyed, kidnapped, murdered—_ what he fought for. Everything he was, was for her. She was gone. But Emily — _innocent, kind, clever child—_ was still alive. Corvo didn’t fight for himself, he didn’t fight for an ideal or petty revenge. 

He fought for her. He existed to keep her safe.

Daud tossed his weapons deep into the Refinery, a dramatic gesture for an assassin.

Corvo felt nothing. 

_YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER.YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER._

Daud met his fiery glare with his own inscrutable gaze. There was a heavy blow to the back of his head and his vision faltered.

_You killed her. And you will burn._

* * *

 Corvo awoke in The Void and felt almost whole again.

The persistent shaking, the searing sensation, and the deep ache that penetrated to his bones had vanished for the moment, but he knew it was only a momentary reprieve, a _gift_ from the Outsider.

Pipes, in the process of deteriorating and shattering faded in and out of the fog, a moment frozen in time. Or, not quite frozen, the violet lantern floating by his side moved slowly as if in the process of being knocked over, time moved differently in The Void.

Corvo stared out into the otherworldly landscape.

They had been close, _so very close_ , to going home. With Burrows and Campbell both disgraced, there would have been few obstacles hindering Emily from ascending to the throne. Corvo should have noticed, Pendleton gained sway and prestige in Parliament with his brothers gone, Martin seized control of the Abby of the Everyman as High Overseer with the black book, and Admiral Havelock… well, he would rule as Lord Regent and take Burrows’ place.

Corvo was meant to keep Emily safe. But he grew comfortable, he trusted those men who had conspired to rescue him and Emily, at least to a degree. Probably not as much as they would have preferred. In the rare down time between his tasks, Corvo would sneak into their rooms and search through their journals and audio graphs; there was evidence of mutual suspicion, nothing incriminating. Corvo soon forgot about keeping a close eye on the _Loyalists_ when he rescued Emily from the Golden Cat.

It was a stupid mistake. And now he was paying for it.

Corvo stared down at his hands, biding his time until he had to search out The Outsider, who would, no doubt, become impatient if he waited too long. Emily would have been taken to the Tower by Havelock, with some half-cocked story about saving the Empress’ daughter from the assassin. Havelock would replace Burrows as Lord Regent and Emily will be locked away to prevent an uprising until she can be suitable controlled by Parliament. She will ascend to the throne as a puppet, and the _Loyalists_ will be pulling the strings. 

_Oh, Jessamine._

It was his fault. If he was smarter, faster, _stronger_ , then he could have saved Jessamine. Corvo should have insisted he stay during the plague crisis, instead of seeking aid from the other Isle; he always knew she was too trusting. But he left, and allowed the plague crisis to fester with Jessamine in the center as he sailed for months around the Isles to beg aid from the reluctant Dukes and aristocrats. 

Corvo should have stayed and protected her. Maybe he would have noticed Campbell’s and Burrow’s underhanded maneuvering or their attempts to manipulate her. But Jessamine was killed, her blood and final desperate plea forever tainting his moemories, and Corvo had nothing to remember her by except a twisted mechanical heart that whispered into his ear using her melodic voice. If he had done his job and protected her, Emily would be happy and dream of pirates and whales and _adventure_ , instead of blood and violence and the horrific reality they witnessed each day. 

In the end, the ones that suffered the most in calamity were the children. 

“Here you are at last, in a ruined and drowning world.”

The Outsider manifested before Corvo in a flicker of darkness, floating effortlessly above the uneven stone. His arms were crossed, head tilted to the side, and his eyes were as endless and dark as looking up at the wide blank sky and realizing just how insignificant a human life was. 

He was an unwelcome sight. 

“Held captive by the man who killed your empress, the assassin Daud.”

Corvo clenched his hands into fists, the stain of the outsider’s mark lay stark against the white of his knuckles. He held his tongue, vitriol pooling like acid in his mouth; it burned to be released. But The Outsider was not a benevolent God, he was an impartial and impassive judge, one who saw humans as playthings for entertainment, and he would not appreciate what insipid venom Corvo had to spit. 

“Your friends poisoned you and dumped your body in the river. Did they do it to protect themselves, so no one would ever know what they’d done?”

Corvo must have appeared so desperate to the _Loyalists,_ fresh from the nurturing atmosphere of Coldridge prison. In the beginning he’d refused to scream, the Royal Interrogator—that vile brutish excuse for a human being— had quickly dissuaded him of the notion. After days and weeks and months on end of the same excruciating routine — _fists, whips on bruised flesh, knives, hours in darkness chained by his wrists, finish with the hot brands and the question—_ the only thing preventing him from signing his name on the damn paper was truth, vengeance _,_ and _Emily._

He had eaten out of the _Loyalists_ hands as soon as they’d told him where Emily was being held, the moment they told him that revenge was a suitable rationale for rampage, the second they assured him that the truth held more weight than an elaborate conspiracy. 

Pendleton had spoken to Corvo like a hound they had rescued from abuse and tamed beneath the promise of safety and security, dangerous but controlled. Martin directed him with a suggestion and a grim smile, always glancing back to _his_ mark boldly displayed on the back of his hand, a warning and a promise. Beneath the kind words and comradeship, Havelock treated him like a feral animal, one he would unshackle to complete his dirty work, but a hound he didn’t trust to not rip his throat out if he over stepped his boundaries.

They over stepped the boundaries the moment they dared touch Emily.

“Or was it because they were a single move away from controlling an Empire, and they knew you’d never let them manipulate Emily.” 

Power, land, laws, resources, money, trade, status and sheer influence over the Empire of the Isles would be in the control of a girl the age of ten—a small, fragile, little creature, so very susceptible to emotional manipulation.

It was a strong temptation, with only a single obstacle—a feral hound to be put down ( _wouldn’t it be merciful, he was broken long before the tortures of Coldridge, he was shattered when the Empress’ heart stuttered on the assassin’s blade)_.

_Dead eyes._

“Maybe none of these. Perhaps that’s just the nature of man.”

* * *

Pain — _searing, burning, excruciating, agonizing, mind-numbing—_ overwhelmed Corvo.

He gasped, the thick pungent air pervaded his lungs like alcohol on an open wound. Gritting his teeth shut, the slick taste of rust filled his mouth, blocking off his airways. He coughed heavily in an instinctive attempt to dislodge the blood, but he only succeeded in dragging a razor over the remains of his skinned throat.

Fever twisted his thoughts, his vision. His head thrummed in time with his rapid heart rate, heat pooling behind his eyes and in his temples. The stressed muscles, still recovering from malnutrition and atrophy, seized and tensed and twitched intermittently as fire flooded his limbs. 

Pain obliterated his thoughts, nothing registered beyond white noise and static and the shadows surrounding him. Corvo laid still, oblivious to the rats clambering over his prone form or the rough hewn stones that dug into his back. 

There were whispers— _shrill, overwhelming, accusing—_ all around him.

_“Get Away! Mommy!”_

_“Corvo!”_

She screamed. A deafening, desperate shriek that reverberated around the metal pit. Corvo clamped his hands over his ears and curled into himself, ignoring the acidic burning in his clumsy limbs as he tensed, but there was no escaping the noise.

Hearing it again was more painful that the poison coursing through his veins.

There was the distinct clack of heels on stone, and a pair of familiar boots entered Corvo’s flickering vision. Jolted with gut-wrenching recognition, Corvo raised his eyes to face the one he had promised to protect.

Jessamine’s hands were gently clasped behind her back, her shoulders were set, and her hair was twisted and pinned atop her head, impeccable and regal as always. Except for a great red stain, fresh and glistening even in the slanting light from the boards over his prison cell, and the dark shadows that clouded her face and expression as she gazed down at Corvo’s prone body, her very own Lord Protector. 

_“Time and time again, faced with the ones who conspired to destroy me, you chose mercy over vengeance.”_

_“You chose mercy, Corvo, but was it just, or was it vindictive?”_

_“My dear, Lord Protector: disgraced, dishonored, and a failure. You would be better suited as an assassin, a thief, if not for the fact that you are blind to the blood staining your hands.”_

Jessamine leaned down, the shadows loomed behind her, dancing like firelight, and placed a delicate hand on Corvo’s cheek, wiping a tear that escaped down the side of his face with a sharp-nailed finger. Her hand was cold. She whispered, like all those moments stolen between duty and rest, secreted away between one breath and the next, a perverted parody of a tender moment between lovers.

_“It was not mercy that stayed your blade, Corvo. Do not use me as an excuse for your choices any longer.”_

Corvo sucked in a breath, steadfastly ignoring the burning sensation in his eyes and throat, and turned his gaze from the sight. One sharp nail dug into the corner of his eye and Corvo flinched away.

_“Do not blind yourself from what you’ve done.”_

“You’re not her,” Corvo gasped, the breath barely escaping his lips as a whisper. The Heart that was still nestled in his coat over his own heart, beat twice in quick succession, matching Corvo’s rapid heart rate. Whether it was in reassurance or dissent to his statement, he didn’t know.

_“Oh Corvo, but I am. I am the Empress you watched die, the mother who felt her daughter ripped from her arms. I am the one you failed.”_

The hand on his cheek lifted, trailing a finger over his jawline to his chin as she tilted his head up. The chill of her hand was painfully exquisite against his fevered face. Her shadowed face met his gaze as Corvo opened his eyes. 

Blood dripped onto his chest, thick and hot, from the gaping wound in her stomach. Corvo swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. 

_“Did you know what you’ve done? What your choices have lead to? Or have you closed your eyes, and blocked your ears to the consequences of the actions you’ve taken.”_

Corvo fought the temptation to do what she accused him of doing. He yearned to turn away from this wraith that materialized with Jessamine’s skin. He wanted to close his eyes, cover his ears, and ignore her. Jessamine would never say this to him, right?

_“Thaddeus Campbell, the High Overseer of The Abbey of the Everyman. I must say, I enjoyed the way you carried out his punishment. A heretic brand scorched into his face by one of the few truly Marked by the Outsider. The irony was lost on him._

_He felt the prick of the dart in his neck, his familiar sword was in his hand ready to be sated on the blood of Captain Curnow, and then all that existed was the excruciating burn of a brand. The face of Death stared him down. You pushed and twisted the acid dipped metal, relishing the agony and fear in his expression.”_

Corvo stared in horror as Jessamine continued with her posture relaxed but still. The burning that emanated deep in his bones made it difficult to concentrate, to move, to do anything other than listen to the shadow of Jessamine. Her words rung true, and they were spoken in the same soft practiced voice she’d utilized in Parliament when defining an issue. 

_“No one listened as he screamed about the heretic in Death’s mask. They rejected him treatment, withheld elixir and food for days as he was shackled in Holger’s Square. Overseers he had wronged and aristocrats he had blackmailed would visit and whisper accusations and false promises in his ear.’You reap what you sow. You deserve a fate worse than death. You do not deserve mercy.’_

Jessamine turned, the shadows embraced her as she took a step away from Corvo.

_“Plague rats tore through his clothes and ripped off his toes. The overseers with their hounds and music boxes by their sides, watched the spectacle and laughed at the one who had risen to great heights and fallen further. The next day Thaddeus coughed, and the flies began to swarm upon his body._

_They dumped him in the Flooded District, dropping his body with dozens of other wrapped in shrouds. He awoke with blood and river water on his tongue and bodies raining down around him.”_

Jessamine spun around, the shadows banishing around her and flickering, _“You may see him again, but you will not recognize what he has become.”_

Corvo stared blankly at the ceiling, a few loose floor boards over a fox hole, a shadow fell over the opening, but he registered nothing. He tried to avoid looking at her. Jessamine’s blood dripped onto the stone floor, joining the aged brown splatter of the previous occupants. 

“ _Thaddeus’ end was more brutal and vicious than any blade in the neck, and you still believe yourself merciful."_

“Don’t.” Corvo didn’t feel merciful, he never thought he was merciful in dealing with Campbell. When faced with one of the men who conspired to kill Jessamine, he’d felt overwhelming bloodlust and the urge to condemn him to a fate worse than death. He was ashamed of how he felt, but he was not ashamed of what he’d done. 

_“What about the City Watchmen that fell to your blade, or those who succumbed to a dart or arm around the neck. You dumped them in dark corners, hid them behind barriers and dumpsters.”_

_“_ They were safe,” Corvo mumbled in response, trying to defend himself. He’d spared as many as he could in his march, but even with the Outsider’s _gift_ he had been forced in situations that only concluded in death and bloodshed. 

_“Safe from what, Corvo, the plague rats, the other watchmen, yourself? When the next patrol came to replace them, they found their bodies ravaged by rats. There wasn’t enough left to identify them._

_Some men were found unconscious by their superior officer, with a broken bottle of whiskey beside them. They were reported and dishonorably discharged from the city watch. They begged to stay, even though the work conditions were deplorable and the pay was little more than that of a common laborer. The rations of Sokolov’s Elixir and tinned food kept their families alive and healthy.”_

“Stop.” The word fell weakly from his lips, and Corvo tried to concentrate on breathing through the burning in his chest and the fever behind his eyes. 

_“They went home, their plea went unheeded. The officers coveted the extra elixir for their own families, the children didn’t know they were steal from the mouths of others when they complained about the bitter taste. For those families who lost their only source of income and elixir, they succumbed to the plague together. The children died first, and the parents joined the weepers that wandered the streets._

_The fortunate ones awoke and staggered back to their commanding officer. The officer would brush off their claims or blame them from the hole in security. They would receive reduced rations, less elixir, and were posted close to quarantine zones. Most didn’t last more than a week. Some will last months and wish they wouldn’t as one by one they see their friends and family fall.”_  

“Please, stop.” Corvo begged. He’d never thought about what had become of those men he’d rendered unconscious in his blind march to unseat the Lord Regent, he was too focused on the end result, on Emily. She crouched down beside him, her cold hand returning to his cheek, the shadows shrouding her face pulled into what reminisced as a malevolent smile. 

_“Oh, Corvo, is the truth too much to handle? Six months at the hands of the Royal Interrogator, and you didn’t speak a word, but just a few minutes with the ramifications of your actions and you are already begging for release.”_

_“The Heart spoke, didn’t she, about the men you left to the rats. ‘The need for drink outweighs all else for this one.’ ‘This one thinks only of whores.’ ‘His father beat him. Now it is his turn to beat his son.’ Did they deserve the fate you dealt?”_

_“And the others, the ones you abandoned to a fate of prolonged death. The heart spoke of those, too. ‘He taught himself how to read.’ ‘When not at his post, he searches for his sister, missing a weak now.’ ‘The floods took his home and family.’ Some of them had saluted you in the halls of the Tower as you passed, they had glowed with pride when you nodded back or gave them a kind word.”_

“Jessamine…” Corvo curling away from Jessamine as she removed her hand once more, and attempted to ignore the fire coursing through his veins.

This was his judgement. This was his end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Lovely Readers! Perhaps you'll be glad to know that this little series is finished, just needs some polishing and editing, and a (sort of) sequel is in the works! In the end it should be 15,000 words. I'll be updating every week on Saturday.  
> Also, for the sake of my story, Emily was upstairs asleep when Corvo came back to the Hound Pits after the Burrows mission.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think. Comments and Critiques are appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading! -Rezz


	2. Judgement Call

In the Flooded District, Daud waited. 

As the threat to Lady Emily was surgically removed and his Whalers relaxed after the blow Billie dealt, Daud waited patiently for Corvo to appear on his doorstep. With his blood stained blade in hand, the Outsider’s ability at his fingertips, and the mask of death disguising his rage, Corvo would attack in a whirlwind and seek his revenge.

It would not be an easy fight, but there will be a resolution. Whether either walk away alive or dead lay in the impulses of both men as they crossed blades and locked gazes. 

However, despite the potential morbid outcome that Daud was willing to face, he was not willing to use his men as cannon fodder to slow Corvo’s mad rush. Plans were devised, subtle and overt, patrols and training exercises, to keep the Whalers from the meeting their end beneath the bite of Corvo’s blade when the masked felon would be sighted converging upon their lair.

Each detail was meticulously concocted in response to any and all conceivable actions taken by Corvo when his name was next on his list. Daud had spent many sleepless nights turning countless plans over in his mind, adding failsafes and diverging points when events turn. 

Daud waited, and he was ready for Corvo’s assault at any point. But in spite of all his plans, the unthinkable occurred. 

Corvo Attano, poisoned and helpless, washed up on the Daud’s doorstep. 

There was no avenging spirit beneath Death’s visage, stained blade and glowing magic wielded in his hands, who would descend upon the Whalers with a skewed sense of divine justice straightening his spine. There was no shadow that slunk along the rafters around his men—leaving them none the wiser— to surgically remove Daud from the convoluted equation. There was no force of nature that would fall upon the Flooded District, ruining the remains more than the sea ever could beneath a flood of tainted blood, with a gleam of madness behind his disguise.

There was only Corvo Attano, a man almost Daud’s age shattered by death and marked too late; he had few thing precious to him left, and only one person to hold him together. 

Daud had no plan for this outcome, so he improvised, not very well according to some. 

He dumped the former Lord Protecter in a hole and posted loose patrols across the Flooded District. Once he had sent the novices out on a scouting mission with a master assassin acting as leader, Thomas, his newly instated Second-in-Command, seemed to understand the underlying meaning behind haphazard commands. Thomas didn’t have a smart mouth, only because he never had to speak his disapproval to be understood.

Corvo would escape, either sneaking around his men to cutting his way through, and confront Daud blade to blade. Then, there will be a resolution, an end to months of guilt and regret tearing at his mind like plague rats, a climatic end to Corvo’s march of vengeance and Daud’s business of blood. 

Who will the Outsider save?

With a sharp click, Daud pushed a card into the audiograph and flipped the switch to begin recording. At an abrupt loss for words, Daud pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, lighting one deftly with a practiced motion, he took a long drag as he mulled over the words for his last recording.

“So you’ve lost it all. Ruined at last, Lord Regent. Royal Spymaster, Hiram Burrows. You small, worried man. You’ll never know how many times I’ve thought about trying to get close to you again, just to put a sharp piece of metal in your eye.”

Daud had much more to say, vitriol and venom to be spat, but he was not a man of exaggeration nor an orator of many words. He spoke what needed to be said and nothing more crossed his lips. The end glowed red, and ashes fell to the damp wooden floor.

“But now there’s no need. You’ve been taken down by the same apparatus that gave you life to begin with: laws and courtrooms and the mighty swell of public outrage.” 

In the end, there is so much farther to fall. 

“Good riddance to you, _sir_.”

“So many schemes you’ve had and so many contracts. How many people did I kill for you? None like her. I’d give back all the coin if I could. No one should have to kill an Empress.”

No one should bear the responsibility for the slow death of an Empire.

The cigarette slipped through numb fingers, scattering the floor with dull grey ashes, and the recording clicked to a close.

Daud stepped away and waited for the end. 

* * *

 

“Sir.” Thomas said in leu of a formal greeting as he transversed into Daud’s office with a flicker of shadows, and dipped into a sharp salute.

“Thomas. What is it?” Daud replied and looked up from the notes and papers he pretended to read.

Corvo had escaped, of course he had, Daud had planned for this eventuality, had banked on it. The orders were on the tip of his tongue and everything would fall into place, all he needed to hear were the words from Thomas’s mouth.

Thomas looked down as if the floorboard would reveal the correct phrase. The leather mask disguised his facial expressions from Daud’s scrutiny but his stiff body language hinted that something was amiss.

“There is something wrong with the prisoner.” Thomas said eventually, his distorted tone carefully bland.

“What do you mean?” Daud asked sharply. 

Thomas never could play by the script; he was supposed to say, ‘the prisoner escaped,’ or ‘we’ve found some men choked out at the edge of the district.’ Simple, easy, expected, all according to Daud’s plan; the orders were ready but Thomas refused to say the words. 

Again, Thomas hesitated. “It would be better if you witnessed it yourself.” 

Fine, if Thomas wanted to play this game, Daud would humor him this one last time. 

With a nod of acquiescence, Daud and Thomas transversed rapidly across the district toward the occupied cell.

* * *

 

_“Treavor Pendleton, a jealous little son of nobility, ordered the death of his own brothers. Granted, the Pendleton Twins were neither good nor decent, and they were not kind to little Treavor, but is that enough to condemn blood to death?”_

_“Of course,”_ Jessamine spoke flippantly, seated on a throne of darkness with her legs crossed regally. Shadows flitted across the suggestion of her face, hinting at a grim smile. “ _You did not shove a blade in the side of Custis’s neck, and Morgan did not choke on his own blood as his last thoughts fled to the fate of his brother. You did not harm a hair on their heads, at least, not directly.”_

Corvo was trapped, whimpers and moans escaped his chapped lips as the shadows encroached upon his half-lidded vision accusingly, but refused to allow him to succumb to the blessed nothingness of darkness. 

_“How did it feel, Corvo, once you gave the safe combination to Slackjaw, to know the fate you had damned the noble brothers to? He was certainly gleeful in gloating about the what he had planned for the Pendletons, irony at its finest as they joined their frightened captives from Pandyssia in their own mines.”_

“Stop, please, Jessamine,” Corvo begged. 

_“But you did not care, of course not. Emily was in your hands, but she had been kept in a whore house for months, growing too fast in your absence. You barely recognized her. The child had been returned to your dubious care, however her eyes were older, her smile dimmer, her laugh brittle like warped glass, and you did not have a spare thought for anyone else.”_

His limbs burned, and he couldn’t move beyond the uncontrollable spasms. 

His throat burned, and the words he spoke were gravelly and almost incoherent. 

His world burned, and the shadows consumed the ashes.

In the end, there would be no respite from what he had wrought. 

“Emily is…” ‘ _healing,’_ Corvo wanted to say, ‘ _resilient, determined, and strong-willed, just like her mother_.’ But he couldn’t get the words past the knot in his throat; he coughed and hacked up a splattering of blood that flecked his lips, he didn’t notice. 

Jessamine ignored Corvo’s attempt to speak, leaning forward with her arms braced on her knees, her hands steepled beneath her chin and head tilted to the side. Corvo’s heart seized at the sight, and The Heart beat once against his chest; it was a bitterly familiar pose for when Jessamine had discovered something particularly entertaining or interesting. 

_“Slackjaw did more than he claimed, he took sick pleasure from seeing the nobles brought to their knees,”_ Jessamine stated matter-of-factly. _“The brothers were left to the mercy of the mine’s wardens, a common tactic to shatter the resolve and ‘break’ the unwilling miners was to sever the familial bonds. They were separated, their wordless screams through tongueless mouths were echoed by many others as they were dragged away from each other in chains. Weeks passed before they came close enough to see one another, but with their heads dipped low and hands heavy in shackles, they did not notice when they brushed shoulders.”_

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” He repeated the mantra under his breath, his desperate excuse for his thoughtless actions. But Ignorance could not excuse what he had done, and he knew that.

_“Trevor Pendleton paid you handsomely for your mercy, he naively imagined his brothers held in a filthy cell without their favorite whores for entertainment. You gave the money to Piero in exchange for sleep darts.”_

_“And Lady Boyle. Another order, another target you did not question, too preoccupied in your narrow world that centered around a damaged little girl. Esma Boyle was rather promiscuous, she had always tended toward scandalous bed partners in the eyes of the court, not to mention the several women she’d pleasured over the years.”_

Jessamine leaned back and spoke in a rather perplexed tone, “ _She had offered her… services to me once.”_

Corvo didn’t know how to feel about that, so he didn’t. He didn’t bother to discern his whirlwind of ragged emotions. He was wrung out and his feeble life leeched away and dissipated with each agonizing breath. The only comfort Corvo had was The Heart that beat sporadically against his chest. 

_“Esma had a daughter once, years ago, childbirth was excruciating and lasted days. She begged the Outsider to give her release. Her daughter was stillborn and left unnamed. Esma drank and slept in different beds to forget what she had lost and never truly had. She was Hiram’s private benefactor, both in bed and in coin._

_She loved how the plague made people more desperate, more adventurous and audacious than they were even during fugue feast and she expected an exciting night when you enticed her to the cellar. Esma awoke with a bruised neck and a boat rocking beneath her; she was shaking and begged to be released as a man she didn’t recognize insisted that she would learn to love him.”_

On his side, curled around The Heart, Corvo clung to the tattered remains of his sense of self. What was real, what was not? He regretted what he did to Lady Boyle, but freedom and his goal was almost within reach, the fall of Burrows and the ascension of Emily to the throne. Corvo didn’t notice, didn’t realize that Brisby was anything except her lover until they were leaving in the boat through the sewers.

_“Sometime soon, she will take her own life, whispering the name she’d kept close to her heart, of the little girl she never had a chance to see grow. Esma never was very strong.”_

“Jessamine,” Corvo pleaded breathlessly. 

_“Did it help you sleep at night, the nights Emily cried awake and stole across the metal walkway to your attic room, to believe the hands that held her close, the hands that cradled her head were clean? She has seen more than you know, and she can see the past the metal monstrosity of death’s mask to the fragmented man beneath.”_

_“Oh, Corvo,”_ Jessamine whispered patronizingly. There was no hint of the affection that threaded in her voice the other times she’d spoken those same words. 

Corvo didn’t want to remember the times with their heads bent together in random alcoves, the times he’d whispered into Jessamine’s ear during a formal dinner to see a strained smile turn genuine, the times after they had tucked Emily into bed and shared a couple glasses of Tyvian red with breathless laughter between them. 

He didn’t want to taint those precious memories. 

“ _You still believe you can protect her from those who would do her harm, but do you think you can succeed when you have failed before?”_

“I have to,” Corvo rasped uncertainly and swallowed past the swelling in his torn throat, “I have to keep her safe.” 

_“Little Emily the Empress is still naive, despite all she has seen. However, soon she will realize the folly in trusting the man whose oversight resulted in the murder of her Mother.”_

“I should have kept you safe.” The words were almost lost in a coughing fit that stabbed knives into his chest and pumped fire through his veins; exhausted and curled tightly around The Heart, he whispered, “I’m sorry.” 

The words sounded hollow even to his own ears. 

_“Emily still dreams of the nights you and I told her bed time stories about fierce pirates and mighty whales. Those memories hurt her more that seeing me die on the blade. Sometimes she wishes she can fade into stories and forget herself at sea. Sitting above Piero’s workshop, high above the unforgiving ground, she would watch the way the river water moves before searching out the comfort you so readily give.”_

“I need to keep her safe. Emily…” It was painful. It was excruciating. And through it all he had to keep his promise, he had to keep her safe from harm. Nothing else mattered. 

“ _She is strong, stubborn and resilient, even in the face of calamity, and soon she will not need you anymore, like a child growing too old for her adored toy. What will you do then, when she casts you aside, when she no longer trusts your judgement, your protection?”_

_Dead Eyes._ There would be nothing. 

_“What will you do, Corvo, when your reason for existence, the reason you fight, abandons you?”_

_Nothing._

_“What will remain of Corvo Attano?”_

_Nothing._

* * *

 

With barely a whisper to betray his arrival, Daud transversed into the make-shift prison, Thomas not even a second behind him.

Daud’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight before him for a brief moment, then he growled menacingly low in his throat.

Several whalers, having abandoned their post, stood around the cell that contained Corvo; they peered into the hole through the wooden slats, heads tilted to the side in curiosity and whispering lowly among themselves with masks bent close in the low light. 

“Did he just—?”

“Is he seeing—“

“He keeps talking and—“ 

“Correct me if I am wrong, Thomas,” Daud growled through gritted teeth, gaining the undivided attention of the loitering whalers as their quiet conversation cut off abruptly, “but I ordered one guard to stand here, the _others_ are supposed to be on patrol.”

“That is correct, Sir.” Thomas replied promptly, and from the many years they’ve know each other, Daud could imagine the amused and exasperated smirk that graced his face beneath the anonymity of the leather mask.

The Whalers tensed and stilled, shock evident in their body language. As Daud stepped forward, his boots echoing loudly on the metal walkway and his expression dark with irritation, the Whalers transversed away as one. Although, Daud was satisfied to hear a terrified squeak from one of the younger assassins.

Now that the distractions were suitably attended to, Daud could hear the quiet moans and whimpers reverberating in the metal cell into which he had dumped the lord protector. 

Daud strode forward purposefully and crouched down to pull open the wooden slats that covered the opening to the make-shift cell. Thousands of potential ideas and thoughts whirled through his mind, muddied river water after a flood, but each explanation for Corvo’s behavior was more ridiculous and unlikely than the last.

Was this a trap, a ploy, to reel Daud in close? Daud’s gloved hand curled tightly against the hilt of his blade in preparation, and he violently yanked open the cell door.

Corvo was curled tightly on his side, his form tense and shaking, huddled beneath the frayed and stained coat that held the echoes of a former majestic title and status in the tarnished gold buttons and delicate stitching on the sleeves. His fever-bright eyes flickered unseeing along the shadows of the prison, searching for something that wasn’t there.

Hacking coughs racked his whole body, wrenching Corvo even tighter into his curled form. His face was pale, tear tracks red and raw even through the smudges of shadows beneath his eyes, and his dark hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat and lack of care. A whimper passed his throat, raspy and low, his lips flecked with the remnants of dried blood. 

“No, please, Jessamine…” The agonizing whisper reverberated in the metal cell, “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—“ His breathless pleas were interrupted by another wave of coughing that shook his whole frame, and his fist grasped at the area in front of his heart.

Daud was struck by how small the man was, beneath the thick coat, beneath the horrific glare of death’s mask, Corvo was a man who had been tortured in Coldridge for six months. His muscles had atrophied from malnutrition and constant pain, leaving only thin wiry remnants of a well toned body, he seemed diminished from what he was months ago. Beneath the veneer of strength and the bright fire of righteous vengeance, he was a shattered fragment of a whole and just man. 

“I have to— I have to protect her.” Corvo continued, unaware of his audience. He seemed to be pleading, talking to someone or whatever perverted phantom that appeared before his eyes, a spirit concocted by his fever twisted mind. 

“Emily…” 

Daud heard a distorted sniff from the shadows that clung to the corners of the room, and at a hard eyed glare, a small Whaler stepped forward, mask still strapped to his face but he was rubbing the side of his neck in apprehension. He must have been relatively new blood, Daud couldn’t recognize the boy right away without him speaking. 

Thomas stepped forward, “Everard.” 

Everard dipped into a tight salute, fisted hand over chest, and replied in a voice thick with some unidentified emotion, “Sir.”

“Why are you still here,” Daud demanded, readily shifting his attention away from the damaged man that silently threatened his peace of mind.

“It is my shift to watch… the prisoner, Sir.” Everard answered, subtly clearing his throat. 

“The prisoner has been coughing up blood, and he continues to shake. He doesn’t react to any stimuli. I do not believe he knows we are here, or where he is.” Everard reported, cold detached professionalism fought to rule his tone; it was only mildly successful. 

Silence descended upon the three men, interrupted only by the breathless pleas of the prisoner. Daud did not foresee this, he did not predict — _in all his planning, schemes, dreams, nightmares—_ that Corvo would wash up on his shores half-dead. 

“I believe,” Everard began uncertainly, and made eye contact with Thomas who nodded in encouragement, “I believe he’s been talking to Emily and the Empress.” With that last word, he stepped back into the shadows to resume is guard duty.

Perhaps it was worse than the months in Coldridge at the Royal Interrogator’s hands, the brute, after all a fevered mind can unearth all the long buried weaknesses and guilt, no matter the time and distance between them. Staring down at the shaking man, a man tortured by his mind’s twisted phantoms and the poison that coursed through his veins, Daud made a snap decision. 

“Bring Peregrine and Matteo, Thomas.” Daud ordered quietly, and Thomas transversed in a flicker of shadow to retrieve the two Whalers. 

“Attano,” Daud’s command reverberated in the metal cell, distorting and echoing until the name dissipated into meaningless din. Corvo didn’t even twitch.

“Is this the man who failed to protect the Empress?”

The taunt sounded hollow and desperate to his own ears, but he needed a response from Corvo, anything to penetrate through this nightmare within which he had trapped himself. A nightmare Daud created with his own hands. 

“Is this the power of the great Royal Protector?”

Daud dropped down, his boots landing on the metal with an unprofessional clatter, and stood before the tense figure that whispered under his breath. He remembered the child, Emily, cruelly stolen from the scene of her Mother’s murder, kicking and screaming valiantly as they transversed through the void, _‘Corvo’s gonna find me—‘ ‘he’s gonna hurt you if you don’t let me go!’_

“This is the man the child trusted to keep her from harm?”

Corvo stirred, and Daud pressed onward even as the words tasted of ash and river mud on his tongue.

“This is what remains of Corvo Attano?”

Corvo’s fever-bright and glazed eyes met Daud; he attempted to speak but his words were swallowed by another wave of wracking coughs that seized his whole frame, a small stream of blood slipped out the corner of his chapped lips. 

“They both screamed for you, the Empress and her daughter.”

Daud didn’t know why he was tormenting the pitiful man. Perhaps it was the ice in his chest that refused to thaw, or maybe a desperate attempt to pressure a reaction from Corvo to set his plans back on track. His mouth was running, spitting malicious venom in a blank tone, even as the words echoed gruesomely within his own conscience. 

_You killed her._

“Jess…” Corvo stuttered, his voice weak and raspy as if from screaming for hours. Daud crouched down, gloved fist curling around the hilt of his blade, ready for an abrupt retaliation, but he owed Corvo to hear the words he had to speak.

“Jessamine… you were right.” Corvo met Daud’s eyes, but they were glazed and dark. Corvo wasn’t seeing the man who destroyed his life.

“I… give this back to you.” Corvo reached into his coat, the area over his chest, and Daud’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade. A mechanical heart was pushed into his empty palm, still and warm through his gloves, the clockwork gears whirled quietly as Corvo’s arm thudded to the filthy ground, a puppet cut from its strings.

Daud was horrified. 

“It was never mine to take.” Corvo’s eyes slipped shut, shuttering the unadulterated raw emotion within.

“I’m sorry.” It was a simple apology, genuine but empty. 

“Don’t forgive me.” It was a whispered plea, sincere but fearful.

Daud gripped the clockwork monstrosity tightly as an maelstrom of confusing emotions overwhelmed him in a wave, emotions he had become well acquainted with in the last six months since the Empress’s heart stuttered to a halt on the end of his blade. 

The Heart beat once, jostling Daud’s grip, and responded.

_“Oh, Corvo. Ever a man of honor. She would forgive him, but there is nothing to forgive. He does not understand that… The Empress loved him as much as he did her.”_

The Heart slipped through Daud’s numb fingers and hit the metal ground, bouncing and clanking as the gears whirled to life and glowed. He had only heard it a handful of times, over the city wide announcement years ago, and in the screams that continued to haunt his dreams. 

It spoke in _her_ voice. 

_“You may understand the significance of what you’ve done. You may regret killing The Empress. You may have saved Lady Emily, but you cannot wash away the blood that stains your hands.”_

Her voice was steel, sharp and harsh. The Heart glowed and spoke unbidden by either of the damaged men. Its gears whirled and it beat a rapid rhythm into the metal of the floor, the sound reverberating in the cell, overwhelming the wheezing breaths and the accustomed squeak of rats. 

Corvo’s dirt stained hand reached out, fingers twitching as if to grasp and eyes wincing as his tense, curled form shuddered with uncontrollable coughs, shiny drops of rubies flecked his chapped lips and shone like stars in the low light. He breathed a sigh as his broken nails brushed the deceptively soft leathery surface of The Heart. Gears clicking to a halt and the incessant beating slowed to a gently, reassuring pace, Corvo allowed his eyes to fall shut once more, serene relief crossed his face briefly. 

_“When you are near, my heart is at peace.”_ The tone was warm, soft and delicate, a whisper of summer winds over the river, a calm before a storm. 

Daud hadn’t moved during the entire exchange, all thought process had ground to a halt once the Heart — _alive, beating, hers—_ had been pushed into his hand. The same hand that held the blade, that was felt the splash of — _hot, slick, familiar—_ blood through the thick leather. When he had pulled off the gloves, all those months ago, his hands were clean, calloused and strong as they had always been, but his perception had shifted. 

_By the Void…_ A gift from the Outsider to his favorite marked. 

Daud didn’t believe for a moment that Corvo appreciated the gesture, the reminder of his failure. It was a calculate move, the black-eyed bastard knew this would push Corvo over the edge or at least to the precipice. Either way, when the end came and the curtains closed, the conniving God would have received his entertainment. The very thought of the smirking self-satisfied god brought a sneer to Daud’s face, and he glared down at the clockwork monstrosity, a perverted gesture of adoration that spoke in a loved one’s whispers. 

“Sir?” Thomas asked, worry laced his professional tone. “What is wrong?”

The Knife of Dunwall continued to stare down at the scene that lay before his feet. Corvo, poisoned and shattered, reaching for the perverted fragment of his lost love, a conglomeration of clockwork and living tissue that continued to beat and speak. Perhaps there was only one heart truly beating between them.

_You killed her. You destroyed him._

_And now they lay before your feet, silent and still._

_This is what you’ve done._

His own thoughts were more insidious than any vitriol The Heart could spit. 

“Daud,” Thomas’s hard tone drew his attention away, he was standing beside him now, hand outstretched but not daring to touch. He was struck by an odd absurdity when he realized the top of Thomas’s head barely reached his shoulder; there was a unspoken distance between them now that wasn’t present when Thomas used to wrap his arms around Daud’s waist many years ago, “Are you alright?”

Daud looked away, not meeting Thomas’s eyes, and stooped to pick up The Heart, intent on returning the cursed thing to Corvo’s coat for safe keeping. He never wanted to see or hear it again. Not when it spoke in _her_ voice and came from _his_ hands.

_“Thomas Byron, his eyes may be cursed by the void, but he observers more than most. He never judges what he sees. He believes he had no right.”_

The Heart beat softly in his palm, warm and almost reassuring. Daud wanted it to _burn,_ to tear at his scarred flesh, to sever deeply to the bone and through it, just as his blade had slipped into the belly of the woman the organ had been ripped from. 

_“He sees you as the Father he never had. Even if you may never return that sentiment, he will guard his admiration to his last breath. He has formed his own family within the Whalers from vagabonds, street rats, and disgraced overseers. He cannot see himself anywhere but by your side and he fears that this is the end of the Whalers, the end of you.”_

The hand was on his arm now, tight and grounding. But Daud’s fist around the heart would not loosen. Daud turned toward Thomas, and noticed another Whaler crouched by the edge of the cell, head tilted to the side in morbid curiosity as he stared down at the hunched form of the former Lord Protector.

Daud cleared his throat, fist still grasping the perverted deformity that whispered secrets in her voice, it beat hard in his hand, “Peregrine, take a look at him.” 

The Whaler, taller and thicker than Thomas, nodded in understanding and dropped down silently beside Daud. He grasped Corvo’s chin and tilted his head to the side, mumbling under his breath the symptoms of the poison as he forced open his eyes to peer into dilated pupils.

Neither Thomas nor Peregrine seemed to notice the whirling, beating, monstrosity held in his hand, or at least they had enough tact not to mention or stare. As if on cue, she spoke again with a flat voice. 

_“Peregrine Vaughan, he worked hard to be admitted into the Academy of Natural Philosophy. His older brothers thought of him as a little boy with big dreams, and one day he would fall from the clouds back to oil splattered earth. Dunwall is no place for an idealist, but he’s never stopped dreaming.”_

Secrets, unspoken pasts that hung between his Whalers like lengths of rope and twine— _connecting, tying, hanging them together_ —, The Heart spoke the truth and revealed their secrets, secrets Daud never had the inclination to unearth.

_“Beneath moonlight, he picks apart rats and tries to find a cure for the plague. But his talents lie with poisons and death, not antidotes. He hides his failings beneath jests and laughter. The Whalers need a trickster in their ranks and Peregrine will happily fill the role even if his smile is sometimes brittle beneath the mask.”_

Daud had no right to know. He knew enough about his men, his _Whalers_ , when he accepted them in his service. He learned their quirks and idiosyncrasies, as well as their fears, through comradeship in difficult missions and lazily written reports. It took time, and it took trust. The Heart had no right to take that away from him.

“Matteo,” Peregrine called, not looking up from poking and prodding at Corvo’s tense form, “Will you have a look?”

“If you want me to see, bring the man up. I’m not going down there.” Matteo griped in his gravely tone. His sun tanned and weathered face peered over the edge of the cell; he had always refused to cover his face with the leather whaling masks even at the height of plague infection.

“Too bad, it would be nice ’n’ cozy with all five of us in here,” Peregrine quipped absentmindedly, now peering into Corvo’s ears, noting the thin patina of blood that splattered along the edges of his face. 

Matteo only grumbled in response and removed himself from the lip of the cell. Thomas’s hand on his arm tightened as Daud refused to react when Peregrine glanced at him for acquiescence to Matteo’s request, Thomas nodded instead as Peregrine gathered Corvo in his arms and transversed outside the prison cell. 

Corvo was pale and limp like a puppet, head lolling to the side as the hacking and the agonizing pain narrowed his perception. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open.

“Daud.” Thomas repeated, “What are you planning?” 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know. Killing Corvo would be a mercy, death would be a respite to the tortures his mind had concocted, Daud would know, but he couldn’t condemn this man to the void when Daud had annihilated his life enough.

Instead of answering, Daud transversed to the metal grated walkway above to oversee the two resident physicians Daud was fortunate enough to have at his disposal. The Heart was still clenched in his hand.

Matteo peered down at the man, hand over his scruffy chin, rubbing absentmindedly as he always did when in deep thought. He grabbed the prisoner’s hand and pinched the nail beds, nodding as some piece of the puzzle was discerned.

_“Matteo, older than you with a forsaken last name, he sees the world as cruel and conniving and selfish. Needles through pustules and bandages boiled in herbs, he was accused of witchcraft for as long as he practiced medicine, even as he saved a great many lives. He never wanted the Outsider’s power you share with others, and he is glad the abilities passed him by. He has only one friend, and he misses the sun and warmth of Serkonos.”_

Matteo was one of Daud’s first, before they were called Whalers, before Daud was known as the Knife of Dunwall. He never shared much of his own story, and Daud refused to intrude, he valued the companionship just as much as his usefulness as a physician. 

If he could just drop this perverted deformity of a heart, but his hand held fast.

Peregrine and Matteo were conversing among themselves, tossing around natural philosophy jargon with ease born from experience. Daud trusted that one of them would give him a concise report once they had come to a conclusion.

The sound of shifting leather drew his attention away from the swirling and glowing gears of the Heart for a moment, and he glanced to the side to see the boy, Everard, gripping the edge of Thomas’s sleeve, asking something quietly in his ear.

She spoke again, and Daud cursed the thing to the void.

_“Everard Talbot, a bastard son of nobility, his idyllic childhood was shattered when he was declared a threat to succession and turned out on the streets. He stole food and elixir as the plague threat rose within Dunwall and handed them out to other orphaned children. He would fall asleep in the sewers, hungry but fulfilled.”_

Daud closed his eyes, breathing deeply, as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Now that the sheer horror at holding _her_ heart in his hands — _again, this time he won’t run it through—_ had faded, what remained was exhaustion and restless irritation. What was her point? Why was she telling him this?

_“Some nights, he sneaks through the alleys to find the starving children, the ones that are small and afraid. He gives them all he can part with and teaches them how to steal and how to read. One day, he would like to teach.”_

Everard first mission had been the Empress’s assassination. He’d withdrawn afterwards. Daud remembered reading in one of Thomas’s reports that he was worried that Everard was too kind, too soft-hearted for this work, that his conscience and morals would prevent him from obeying orders without question, from killing without reason.

It was a significant weakness to have among assassins: a conscience, morality, kindness. 

_“You… saved them, from themselves, from life worse than death and from something better.”_

And the spell was broken, the Heart slipped from his fingers again, all the buried secrets held close to these men’s hearts were unearthed and bared for Daud to see, and none of them were aware.

The heart stopped beating, and it lay silent on the metal walkway, none of the Whalers commented on Daud’s strange behavior.

Peregrine and Matteo seemed to have come to a consensus, or as much of a consensus as they can come to with Peregrine’s incessant chatter and Matteo’s ambiguous but expressive shrugs and mutters. 

Matteo dipped his chin in agreement and Peregrine turned toward Daud to deliver the report. 

“Tyvian poison, the type that rips through the lining of the stomach and floods the internal organs. Fairly popular among aristocracy for cheating spouses. It numbs muscles and knocks the victim out after the initial ingestion, then he would die within a few hours.

Although, for Corvo, he wasn’t given a full vial, either he didn’t down the whole drink or the would-be-poisoners didn’t follow the recommended dose, so it didn’t kill him right away. His body is fighting it, hence the fever and hallucinations, but given enough time, it’ll eat through his organs and deliver him to a slow and painful death.” The report was given flatly, a hint of inflection coloring Peregrine’s words with interest, but otherwise it was as if he was reporting on the weather conditions for the next day, not the life expectancy of a once great man.

“How long?” Daud asked.

“He’s already lasted twelve hours as our prisoner, and he’s a fighter, so he’ll live longer than the average person,” replied the resident poison specialist, “Maybe a half-day or longer.”

“Either way, Corvo will be dead by tomorrow,” Peregrine finished blandly and shrugged.

A decision had to be made.

The Whalers, his men, stared at him and waited for his orders without judgement in their posture or behind their masks. Although, Matteo crossed his arms over his chest in impatience as always as the silence drew longer, interrupted by the quiet moans and whimpers from the man whose life rested in calloused, merciless, hands.

Daud couldn’t kill him, even if it would be a mercy from the living nightmares and agony Corvo suffered. But aiding in your enemies survival is very different from allowing them to live through lack of intervention. 

He had placed Corvo’s life in the Outsider’s cold hands when he had washed ashore half-dead, and now it seemed that the Outsider had thrust the deliberation of Corvo’s existence back into Daud’s domain. No one else could resolve this issue, and Daud could not shy away from deciding.

Through lack of intervention, Corvo would die. He could perish now, beneath the slide of Daud’s blade across his neck— _it would be over in an instant—_ , the same heavy weapon that was soiled with the blood of the woman Corvo loved or he could die later, under the looming shadows of the hallucinations that tormented him. Either way, Daud doubted Corvo would fall quietly into the Void. 

“Jess… Jessamine.” Corvo gasped the name brokenly, with uncertainty and utter misery lacing his tone. Agony etched deep furrows into his face, and sweat plastered his tangled hair to his forehead. No one moved to alleviate his suffering. 

The Heart at Daud’s feet beat once. He could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots. 

Daud crouched down, gloved hand reaching for The Heart even before he realize what he was doing. He snatched his hand back. 

He didn’t want to touch it. 

He didn’t want to hear it. 

But, he had to give it back, he owed that much to the body guard. It wasn’t his to take, it wasn’t supposed to be touched by him, to feel his unrelenting grasp again. At least this time, his eyes weren’t hard and his smile cruel, the sword that had found sanctuary within many men and women stay sheathed in his belt.

Here was the once honored Royal Protector, rumored to be the best swordsman in the Empire of the Isles, laid before his feet, and his heart was held tight in the grasp of the assassin that toppled his precarious peace and happiness. 

It was all so… unnerving.

So Daud quickly scooped up The Heart, and crept close to Corvo’s tense form, his eyes oddly bright and red rimmed as Daud pushed The Heart back into his open hands with jerky movements. He was glad none of the Whalers remarked on his odd behavior; he didn’t even know if they could see the monstrosity he held. 

Corvo grasped her Heart gently, as if cradling something delicate and precious, and pulled it close to his own chest, curling around it as if to protect it from Daud’s cold gaze. His breathing seemed to ease and the chest deep rattle settled to a pathetic wheeze. 

_“You are the only one the Empress trusts to keep Emily safe. She will grow strong and kind under your guidance. Emily the First will be an Empress of the people and lead Dunwall into a new Era, a better one.”_ The Heart whispered sweetly into Corvo’s ear, a reassurance, a lie or truth. 

Only time will tell.

Daud didn’t want to hear her words. He didn’t want to see the way Corvo relaxed at the reassurance.

It was different, now. The Daud from a year ago wouldn’t even consider allowing his potential executioner to live another day. He would have drawn a blade across Corvo’s throat and dumped his lifeless body into the flood to decay into obscurity with the sunken army of canvas wrapped plague victims. Not another word would be breathed about the man, and Corvo would fade from memory like so many others before him.

But it was not to be. Daud was not the same man he was a year ago, six months ago, before the Empress’s heart stuttered to a stop on the end of his blade and her daughter screamed the name of the man that shuddered in mind-numbing pain at his feet.

Daud had saved Emily, from an unknown threat from one of the Outsider’s marked, when he could have just as easily walked away and blocked his ears. He’d saved Emily for her own sake and for the sake of his penitence and retribution, an action fueled by nothing but guilt and regret. 

Daud refused to deprive the child of both her parental figures, not when the fate of one still rested undetermined within his palm.

“Peregrine, can you create an remedy?” Daud asked. The words sounded foreign to his own ear, and he knew it sounded the same to his men. They were assassins. They smiled with satisfaction and laughed cruelly as blood soaked into plush carpet and eyes clouded over in fear, they do not heal. 

“I… I will.” Peregrine answered steadily and professionally, but his uncertainty was betrayed in the subtle shifting of his weight.

_“His talents lie with poisons and death, not antidotes,”_ The Heart reminded unhelpfully from its cradle against Corvo’s stuttering chest. Daud ignored her, although his eyebrow twitched in irritation.

Matteo simply closed his eyes and nodded grimly, as if he knew the answer before Daud decided. Daud couldn’t see Everard’s or Thomas’s reaction, but he could imagine the confused admiration and fearful anger that shone in their eyes, respectively, behind the leather masks. 

“Take him to where we kept Lady Emily, and continue with the watch.” Daud directed Everard, who jolted back to full awareness and moved forward to carry out the command. Daud could tell Corvo’s weight strained him as Everard hoisted him onto his thin shoulder, even if Corvo was too light for a man almost Daud’s height. With an aborted salute turned nod, Everard vanished into shadow. 

“Matteo, give Peregrine full use of the infirmary.” 

Matteo snorted unflatteringly in response, “he uses it whenever he wants anyway.” With a nod, Peregrine placed a hand on Matteo’s shoulder and they transversed across the district back to the infirmary.

Daud moved to do the same, but Thomas caught his arm in a vice grip.

“You will save him.” His voice was steel, hard and threatening.

Daud didn’t grace that observation with an answer, Thomas already knew.

“He will kill you.” 

“He will try.” Daud responded, soft and low. 

“You will allow him.” This time Thomas’s voice was clipped with resignation and unrepentant anger.

There was no right way to answer, no empty platitudes or heart-felt apologies that could bridge the chasm that opened between the two men. The whole truth was just as bitter as a lie, so Daud chose neither.

“I destroyed him.” 

A truth, just not the one Thomas wanted to hear. Daud had created the machine of his own demise, but he would not fall quietly into the void, no matter what Thomas believed. 

This was his retribution. This was his end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! This chapter is a bit longer and now the story is more than half-done. It's a bit messy, and I'll probably come back and re-edit in a few days. Hope you enjoyed
> 
> As always, let me know what you think. -Rezz


	3. To Live Another Day

 

The world was pain, white hot and visceral, in the silhouette of her caresses.

The world was her voice, the melodies and harmonies of truth over the rush of blood.

The world was nothing.

The void surged.

— _violet, endless, the flickering of stars, fathomless, hatred, apathy, the beginning and the end, of all things, of all men, as relentless as the sea, it is the sea, he is the—_

And he was falling, falling, _falling._ Through it all. Through everything.

Through nothing.

"Attano," Another voice commanded his attention, cold and unyielding, familiar and gentler than _her._

And she was gone, looming shadows banished into the depths as if they had never existed, as if she had never existed.

And she was there, cold and unyielding, familiar and _hurt._

"Jessamine." He had words to say, something worked its way past the steel lump in his throat, passed the rust pooling red on his tongue. It could have been words, it could have been nothing.

It didn't matter. The world was nothing.

His body may have moved, perhaps, the second beat of his heart was gone. Maybe it was for the better, he didn't need two hearts, he didn't need one heart.

He didn't need a heart anymore, he didn't want one, a liability, it _hurt_ too much.

— _guilt, regret, pain, hot irons pushed into his face, a blade across the neck would be a mercy, mercy, mercy, not merciful, hot and slick and red splash on his hands, the mark glowed, the mark burned, death masked him, death suffocated him, what was left, nothing, there was no man beneath the mask, nothing more, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—_

_—It's my fault—_

He should rip it out himself.

There were other voices, soft and low, quick and tense, too fast for him to catch.

She was back, violet shadows flickering like the stars they used to watch together — _fingers almost touching, foreheads together as they whispered quietly, Emily would join them with blanket in hand, eyes glazed with sleep but unwilling to leave—_ wrapped around as elegant armor, but when she spoke he couldn't hear her muddled words anymore, he couldn't pretend to understand.

He wasn't sure he wanted to understand.

Maybe he was moved, maybe he wasn't, there was the song of the void, it called briefly before being whipped away. Someone was poking, prodding, talking, words distorted beyond recognition, words clearer with a familiar Serkonan lilt. What will they do with him now? Whoever they were, whenever now was, whoever he was. Was he a man, still? Or was he less, a creature, mutilated, twisted by the hands of man, by the alluring power of the void.

It didn't matter. The world was nothing.

Something was pushed in his stained palm, fingers grasping and nails scratching, by hands covered to hide the flood of red — _slick and hot—_ and the guilt that clung like river mud. The stench was pungent, and it was greater than his own.

It was hers, a beat that matched his, and it glowed to match his glow, and it clicked and whirled to match the rattle in his chest. He pulled it close to his heart, to feel it, to hear its gentle whispers. It beat on when he could barely muster the effort to take another breath.

It was hers, it spoke in her melodies of times peaceful and _happy._ It was hers, it was his, it should never have been his, but it was, she gave it to him, as he gave his to her. Maybe there was still one beating heart between them.

It _mattered,_ because the world had something. It had her, even when she was gone — _stabbed, uncaring eyes, his name on her breath, red hot and slick—_ and dead and Emily had screamed her name.

_Emily._

_"You are the only one the Empress trusts to keep Emily safe."_

And he would, he had to, he promised.

It mattered. The world was Emily.

The Void sang again, distorting the wind, the words around him into great swaths of color and din. Corvo was falling, falling, _falling—_

 _—_ into the Void— _purples and blues and starlight reflected in still waters, salt water on the tongue, the wind roared_ — between one breath and the next, slipping through forgotten promises and treasured memories.

Maybe this would be the last time he fell.

* * *

Jessamine was heavy with child, furious, and never looked more beautiful and regal than in that single moment. With soft wisps of dark hair falling free of a careful twist and a pistol gripped tightly in a trembling hand for reassurance, her eyes were hard with tension and fear for herself, for Corvo, and for her unborn child.

Corvo didn't see the watchmen whirling around his prone form in a controlled panic, their swords drawn and pistols booming. He only had eyes for the woman who was on her knees by his side, her hands stained red as they held a compress painfully to the bullet wound in his shoulder.

She was saying something, desperate commands passed her lips as panic widened her eyes. But Corvo couldn't discern her words over the deafening rush of blood, over the labored sound of his own breathing. Jessamine lifted one of his limp hands, and held it tightly against her belly, a bloody handprint smearing on her dark clothing.

He felt a gentle kick against his palm.

"I will always protect you." Corvo didn't know who he was making the promise to, the woman he loved or the child they both knew would become their entire world.

Either way, it was a promise, a truth, to which he would dedicate his life, no matter how insignificant that may be.

* * *

"How did you know?" Jessamine asked lowly in the comfortable silence, accomplished exhaustion laced her tone.

The handmaids had already stripped away the remaining stains of labor and echoes of pain with deft hands, and nothing remained to belie the hysteria and trepidation that had engulfed the Tower just a few scant hours before, except for the tiny baby swaddled in layers of fine cloth.

A tuft of brown hair peaked out of the white bundle, and Corvo couldn't help himself from running a gentle hand over the soft baby down with a content smile gracing his usually stoic features.

The fireplace embers doused the room in a warm flickering glow, and the Empress had just been about to descend into the blessed gift of sleep when the question passed her lips.

Corvo had a gut feeling the moment Jessamine announced that she was with child. He knew that the baby would be a girl. Jessamine teased him endlessly about it when he began referring the baby as a her at barely three months into her term, but Jessamine's smile had been soft and warm.

"Just a feeling."

And so Emily Kaldwin, heiress to the Empire of the Isles, was welcomed into the world by the two people who loved her most.

* * *

Emily was barely four months old, and Jessamine was exhausted.

Even with her duties to the Empire, she was reluctant to hand Emily off to a nurse maid or servant to watch over for more than an couple hour at a time, and only for the most essential of Parliament sessions or formal dinners. She refused to make the same mistakes as her Father, regardless of whether or not she worked herself into the cobblestone pulling double duty.

During meals, Emily was there cooing and mumbling in incoherent baby talk. During working hours when Jessamine attended to letters and met with members of her court to attend to civil issues, Emily was soundly asleep or playing quietly with any number of toys. During the night, Emily screamed for attention and no amount of rocking or gentle whispers quieted her cries.

Night after night, it wore on Jessamine. The purple smudges deepened beneath her eyes, requiring a layer of powder each morning before starting the day with a strained smile, and her shoulders sloped lower and lower with each passing night of little rest.

The aristocrats were circling like vultures around a lame prey, awaiting the day the Empress collapsed or admitted the folly in raising the heiress alone. It was already a scandal that a _bastard_ child would inherit the throne, and an Empress that crumpled beneath the weight of motherhood would be the icing on the cake.

Through the door between their shared suite, Corvo could hear the beginnings of Emily fussing in the night. Jessamine was fast asleep, barely an hour after finishing up some vital paperwork for the Rudshore District renovations, but she would always awaken immediately at the first piercing cry.

He crept through the unlocked door, his footsteps silent as always on the plush carpet. Silvery moonlight fell upon the cradle adorned in the finest of fabrics embroidered with swans, giving the illusion of them regally swimming in the low light. Corvo leaned over the cradle, offering a sword calloused and wind weathered finger as Emily began to fuss loudly.

She snatched at the large finger, holding it in a fierce grasp as she claimed it as her own and pulled it to her little chest. A smile softened Corvo's harsh features in the severe light, and he started to hum a traditional Serkonan lullaby, the words lost in faded memories of his own Mother, her voice muffled and fragmented like the distortion from damaged audio graphs.

Emily fell asleep once more to the soothing and throaty melody of Corvo's voice.

Jessamine was surprised to have gotten a full nights rest the next morning, but she never questioned it even as Corvo snuck into her room night after night to sing Emily to sleep.

* * *

Emily wasn't yet a year old and her first word was, "Caw."

"I do not believe that is a word, Jessamine." Corvo said, confusion pulling his eyebrows together as he gazed down at Emily. Jessamine was giggling with delight as she bounced Emily in her arms, looking like a young girl again in her joy. She had called him over excitedly as soon as Emily shouted this new word for all the Tower to hear.

Emily had been making noises all week, 'Ba's and 'Ta's and 'oh's, and it should be no surprise that she had moved on to other single syllable butchered attempts at human speech. She had not yet uttered her first recognizable word, and Jessamine was waiting in anticipation for Emily to muddle her way through something coherent. Hopefully a 'Mama,' that would brighten Jessamine's smile for a month.

"Caw!" Emily proclaimed loudly once more, her forehead furrowed and lips pouted comically as she attempted to mimic Corvo's confused facial expression. She waved her arms, struggling valiantly in her Mother's grip, and reached out to Corvo.

Corvo raised an eyebrow in response and glanced to the side at Jessamine who continued to giggle. The evidence was damning.

"Emily." Jessamine started and bounced her again to gain her reluctant attention, "Who is Corvo?"

Her face scrunched again, and her jutting lower lip trembled in concentration as she tried to form the words.

"C—C—CAW!" She announced in irritation, thrusting her pudgy little hand toward Corvo as if to accuse her Mother of being particularly dull for asking that question.

Jessamine just laughed uproariously in response, hair falling out of place from her tight clip as she threw her head back. Corvo watched with a fond smile softening his gaze, enjoying the way simple pleasures and motherhood seemed to ease the burden of the Empire off Jessamine's tense shoulders, at least for a time.

"Caw." She crowed into his ear in delight, thumping his arms against Corvo's chest when he finally bowed to her demands and cradled her close.

Corvo grinned widely, "My little bird."

* * *

Emily was three and finally learned how to say, "Corvo."

Both Corvo and Jessamine would never admit that they missed the innocent nickname. It was something closer to the truth, something more personal, than a commonly used first name. Corvo feared it would create a distance between them.

But they needn't worry, even at a young age, Emily knew the value of keeping secrets.

When Corvo would carry her to bed after an exhausting day of playing and learning, she would whisper sleepily, "night-night, Daddy."

* * *

There was pain. And perhaps there was something else, light shadowed over his eyes.

He wanted to go back, to lose himself in his own treasured memories

Something cold was pressed against his lips, spilling a liquid that tasted of ashes and salt water into his mouth. Corvo choked, and a large hand rested on his throat — _no, no, nononono, stop—_ and gently massaged so the elixir was swallowed down.

Corvo braced himself for another onslaught of pain — _burning in the limbs, pins and needles in his fingers, fire coursing through his veins, acid dissolving the abused tissue of his throat, and she would appear again, accusations and contempt pooling on her tongue, in her words—_ but nothing came.

The taste of herbs and smoke tingled on his numb tongue.

There was some muttering, words distorted and twisted as if through thick river water. Corvo was drowning. He refused to open his eyes, fearing what he would witness, afraid to banish the remnants of those sweet memory fragments that haunted his inner eye. It may be bittersweet, a moment that could not be repeated in these desperate and bloody times when Dunwall would inevitably be torn apart by the unforgiving sea, but it was preferred to the phantom of the woman he loved wrapped in darkness and starlight.

Corvo was drowning in his memories, in the bittersweet oblivion of the Void, hoping and fearing the words it would bring.

In the end, they were all singing into the Void, waiting for a reply.

* * *

Emily was six and had shoved half a tartlet in Corvo's mouth.

Corvo had grinned back at her, sweet fruit filling sticking to his teeth, she giggled in delight at his antics. He swung her up on her shoulders and they continued on their way. She tugged on his long hair and pretended to be a pirate captain at the wheel of a great ship as they waded through the crowds of people.

In common style clothes, away from the sharp-eyed scrutiny of court, Corvo and Emily laughed together, seeming for all the world like father and daughter enjoying the festivities outside the Chamber of Commerce.

* * *

Emily was seven and had a nightmare.

She knocked gently on Corvo's door in the early hours of the morning when the whale oil lamps had faded to an orange glow and the patrolling watchmen yawned and leaned against the wall in exhaustion.

In her flimsy white night gown, she formed a wispy silhouette as Corvo pulled open the door, his official coat pulled hastily around his shoulders and sword in hand. The sight would have been intimidating if not for the pale blue sleeping clothes that hung loose and low on his wiry frame, and the other hand rubbed sand from his sleep glazed eyes.

"I don't want to wake Mommy tonight." Emily whispered in the low light that cast her face into deep shadow, her features appeared severe and cold despite the tear tracks that shone on her pale cheeks. She trembled, from fear or cold, Corvo couldn't tell, and her arms wrapped tightly around herself in a facsimile of a hug.

Corvo nodded, Jessamine had a hard week, fighting Parliament over the issue with the barrier in the Rudshore district and problems with the low wages for whale oil laborers despite the deplorable work conditions and high risk.

He ducked back into his room, leaving Emily in the doorway to squint into the darkness and rub her arms as she shivered in the chill of the night, and appeared with another one of his navy long coats. Corvo gently placed the coat on Emily's thin shoulders, who excitedly thrust her arms in the sleeves.

With a light push to her back, Corvo lead the way out of his room and down to the kitchens. He nodded shortly to the watchmen standing duty, noting to himself to give them a bonus for once again averting their eyes.

Emily was confused and still scared from the remnants of the nightmare, but was suitably distracted by the way the coat tails almost dragged the floor and the sleeves hung over her fingers. She giggled and grinned as she flapped her hands and pranced about, imagining she was some great bird of prey on a hunt. Corvo simply smiled indulgently, still trying to rub the gritty sleep from his eyes.

They snuck into the kitchens, using a key hidden behind a door down the hall, and Corvo ask Emily to bring him some ingredients from the pantry, while he prepared the cookery on the stove. He lifted her to sit on the counter when she was done so she could supervise. Emily kicked her feet against the drawers in impatience as Corvo cooked, but flinched and fell silent when the racket echoed obnoxiously in the silence.

Corvo hummed an old lullaby as he re-created a comforting drink from his childhood, when his family didn't want for food and could indulge on the occasional expensive treats such as chocolate. Several times, Emily would sneak a finger along the edge of the stirring spoon, wary of the flames licking along the edge of the saucepan, and taste the liquid comfort. Corvo didn't mind, and he said nothing when she started to hum along with him.

Pouring the thick brown liquid into a couple large ceramic mugs that the servants used, instead of the dainty tea cups of royalty that barely held a couple sips, Corvo pulled himself up onto the counter beside Emily.

Emily kicked her feet against the drawers in delight and hummed as the hot cocoa spilled into her mouth and flooded her taste buds with warmth and milky sweetness and dark chocolate.

As the hot cocoa was drained to the last dregs and Emily had begun to lean heavily against Corvo's side, he plucked the mug from her hands and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, simply enjoying the moment. Soon, he would have to carry her upstairs and tomorrow they would be under the harsh scrutiny of court and propriety.

But, for now Corvo could hug and comfort Emily as she drooled chocolate onto his coat.

* * *

Emily was eight and asked why she didn't have a Father.

She glared at Corvo heatedly, as it was his responsibility, his fault, as if it was his failings that lead to her being a bastard child that dirtied the title of heiress. That is, if she was to believe what the aristocrats and noblemen whispered behind gloved hands in dark corners as she'd swept past. Emily didn't even have the decency to wait until they were safe within the privacy of their rooms, foolish child.

Corvo swallowed and averted his gaze. He fell two steps behind the Empress and her daughter, as was proper for his status as Royal Protector, although he hadn't done so within the Tower and away from the prying eyes of the nobles in years.

Jessamine's fury was thunderous; her face blushed red in embarrassment and mortification, and her filed nails curled tightly into fists. She snatched at Emily's wrist in full view of the patrolling guards who were considerate enough to pretend they heard or saw nothing, and dragged her to their shared rooms. Emily screamed about the injustice of her treatment as she dug her heels into the wooden floor boards, gouging marks that the servants would be forced to clean in the early hours of the morning.

Corvo silently retired to his own rooms a few paces down the hall, carefully burying any whirling emotion deeply to be reflected upon in privacy.

There were several long minutes of shrill accusations, and menacing whispers that were muffled by the thick walls. Corvo didn't even attempt to discern their words, he wasn't an eavesdropper, at least not on Jessamine. Silence descended, sudden and suffocating in the wake of vehement argument.

Emily burst through the door between the Empress and the Lord Protector's rooms, tears in her eyes and shaking with emotion. Flinging herself at Corvo, who caught her and spun her around on instinct, Emily tucked her face into his neck and tears soaked into the collar of his coat. She didn't seem to mind the prickly stubble on his chin like she'd complained a few days ago.

"I'm sorry. I don't need a Father. I have you, Corvo." Emily mumbled, her voice thick with tears and regret.

Despite the situation, Corvo smiled and held her closer.

* * *

Emily was nine and found them in the garden.

A guardsman had escorted her to the gazebo where they sat on the cold marble steps, necks craned backwards as they witnessed the stars swirl across the night sky, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, their hands clasped gently together.

Corvo thanked the guard with a nod as Emily skipped over with a thick woolen blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape. Jessamine released his hand, pulling away from Corvo in preparation, and Emily neatly occupied the space between them, a missing piece to complete the puzzle.

Despite the late hour, Emily excited babbled about the stars, pointing out constellations and spinning folktales she'd overheard or learned from her tutors, most of them woefully exaggerated, but all of the stories were entertaining.

Jessamine shared a fond look with Corvo, a soft smile gracing her face and softening her tense features from the day's events as she reached behind Emily to grasp his hand once more.

 _I love this._ Her actions told Corvo.

Corvo squeezed her thin hand, well-suited for the elegantly worded barbed letter writings of court, in his own rough calloused one. _Me, too._

The next morning, she would ask him to sail across the Isles, for Dunwall, for her, and for Emily.

* * *

Emily was ten and doodling on a large sheet of paper.

"What are you drawing?" Corvo asked instead of the question burning in his throat. It wasn't a question that could be verbally reassured; it had to be proved through actions and time.

"I'm making something for you, Corvo." Emily spoke quietly, as if her voice would echo obnoxiously in the near silence.

Corvo slid in the booth next to her, pushing his thigh against her thin leg, but not reaching for her, not putting an arm around her shoulder in comfort like he longed to. Emily noticed — _she didn't miss much these days, her eyes sharp and steel—_ and nodded in understanding when she saw Havelock and Pendleton speaking quietly between themselves in view of the booth, she intimately knew the value of secrets, both kept and revealed. She scooted closer to Corvo, just to feel his warmth briefly through the threadbare coat.

"You'll get to see when I finish. I think you'll like it."

"I'm sure I'll love it."

Corvo spoke only when necessary, he didn't enjoy filling the air with meaningless chatter or reassurances when a glare or hand on a shoulder was worth monologues, speeches and soliloquies of eloquent words. Emily knew what Corvo wanted to say, they had a language all on their own, and there were just the two of them who understood it, now.

_I love you. I'll keep you safe._

Emily tilted her head to the side, not looking into Corvo's eyes, but her hands stilled on the paper in uncertainty.

_Promise?_

Corvo leaned into Emily, ruffling her hair briefly as his body blocked the Loyalists' view and earned them a modicum of privacy, and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She relished in the comfort and warmth, snaking a thin arm around his neck to pull him into a fleeting hug.

_Always. I'll always protect you._

Emily didn't smile, but it was a near thing, a hint of levity brightened her eyes and she returned to drawing with gusto, acting as if the exchange never occurred.

Corvo counted it as a victory, and gently knocked an ankle against Emily's foot beneath the table.

_I love you._

Emily kicked back, a glimmer of amusement pulling at the edge of her lips.

_I love you, too._

* * *

Scratching, rat claws in walls or graphite on parchment paper, permeated through Corvo's consciousness. The sound faded in and out as Corvo languished in the brief moment of serenity just below the surface of consciousness and waited for the agony to begin anew.

But none came. His muscles ached as if from hours of tightly wound tension, and his throat felt sore, but not beyond the typical symptoms of a common illness. Still wary of the echoes of torment that left fragmented scars in his memories, Corvo remained motionless and began to take note of his surroundings without opening his eyes.

The mark tingled and burned, earning a startled gasp. It took a moment for Corvo to realize it wasn't from his mouth. Corvo's dark eyes flew open, eyelashes pulling free from the sticky remnants of emotional upheaval, and he locked gazes with a boy, freckled with curly brown hair, barely at the cusp of adulthood, wearing a dark blue leather Whaler's coat.

Instantly, Corvo's mark flared brightly and he was behind the child, arms up to wrap around his neck and pull him into unconsciousness, but he overestimated his newly regained strength and collapsed heavily to his knees.

The Whaler spun around, pulling his blade and aiming his crossbow in a single smooth motion, the iridescent green of a sleep dart glowed threateningly in the short ranged crossbow strapped to his forearm. The papers he held scattered and the pencil clattered. Corvo could appreciate his lack of fear and the ease in which he fell into a fighting stance, but the boy's eyes flicked uncertainly toward the open window, a tell and a chance.

Corvo blinked again, not trusting his legs to obey his demands even as adrenaline rushed and narrowed his vision, and got inside the Whaler's guard. Corvo towered over him as his eyes widened in surprise and sliced sloppily at Corvo's throat as he stepped away. Even as Corvo's knees locked, he grasped the boy's wrist tightly and aimed the crossbow at his chest. The assassin's eyes widened in morbid understanding the moment before Corvo thumbed the release for dart and it plunged itself into the boy's shoulder. Instantly he went limp, eyes falling shut and muscles relaxed.

Corvo winced in sympathy as the body hit the unforgiving ground with a thud. He would have caught him, but he felt as weak as a kitten, sharp claws and pointed teeth but no strength behind the strikes.

As if on cue, his legs trembled and his muscles ached from the sudden strain, and Corvo collapsed to the dusty floor, limbs splayed out in an unflattering fashion. Corvo took a deep breathe through his nose, and tried to keep the mortification from showing on his face despite the fact the only witness was snoring softly an arm's reach away.

He was so _weak._

Fragmented memories assaulted Corvo in a wave, and Corvo threw an arm over his eyes in a useless attempt to stave off drowning in the wavering images that instigated a deep seated ache in his temples.

— _downing the glass of gut-rot with a tense smile—_

— _half the poison—_

_—he might live. That's up to—_

— _do not use me as an excuse—_

Corvo had been poisoned, by the _Loyalists_ — _damn them to the void—,_ by the men he trusted, and by all rights he should be dead and dumped into the river.

So why wasn't he?

Corvo groped blindly at his own chest, gripping the Heart with a sigh of relief, glad it hadn't been dumped into the refinery with his gear or stolen by Daud.

_Daud._

His heart pounded in his ears and something icy knotted deep in his stomach, Corvo's teeth ground together as the throbbing behind his eyes increased exponentially. Anger coursed through his veins, white hot and visceral, the cold eyes of the Empress killer seared into his memory, as he drew back his sword and plunged it into her, as she _screamed his name._

Corvo swallowed thickly, suddenly battered by the images of a shadowy Jessamine, regal and impeccable with the void draped around her shoulders like a delicate shawl, her hand on his face, her words sharp and ruthless as she whispered quietly into his ear.

_—do not blind yourself—_

— _What will remain of—_

_—This is what remains of—_

_—Corvo!—_

_— A scream, one he would never forget, one that reverberated in his ears whenever her voice whispered through the mechanical heart that continued to beat and whirl and glow—_

_—When you are near, my heart is at peace—_

Corvo's arm slipped from its precarious position above his forehead and hit the ground, the tarnished buttons on his coat clinked lightly at the abuse.

He just wanted a moment, just a single moment to rest, to rest his eyes, to rest his mind. It had been many months since he'd had a full night's sleep not haunted by nightmares or the dull ache of torture.

Corvo was so tired. He just wanted to rest.

Even as the pain behind his eyes reached a crescendo, his eyes slipped shut, anchored by sleepless nights and endless days.

— _You are the only one the Empress trusts to keep Emily safe—_

Emily _._

Corvo inhaled abruptly. He gripped the Heart, for reassurance, for confirmation, for anything but the silence that pervaded the air and deafened his ears. It didn't speak, _she_ didn't speak, but it beat once against his palm, the gears clicked quietly as it completed a single rotation.

With a monumental effort, Corvo levered himself into a sitting position, ignoring the trembling of his limbs and the ache in his muscles.

_Emily._

He had to keep her safe.

Where was she? Taken from the hound pits to The Tower? If they were smart and feared he was alive, the conspirators would separate, Pendleton to his Manor devoid of riches due to the Twin's lavish spendings, Martin to the Abbey still in shambles, and Havelock to the Tower, they would know Corvo was descending with a bloodied blade the moment one of them fell. One of them would have her, imprisoned in a windowless room, ignoring or taking pleasure from her demands to be released, from stubborn belief the _Corvo was coming to save her—_

Corvo refused to think about what happened to her, there was no point in speculating until he confirmed the truth, the turmoil would only tear him apart in the end. Martin, Havelock, perhaps even dull little Pendleton if he looked up from the bottom of his whiskey bottle, knew that the Empire would continue to crumble, beyond repair, beyond any hope of salvation, if Emily was _k_ —

— _they both screamed for you, the Empress and her daughter—_

_—a serkonan lilt, familiar accent, cold eyes, short blade in hand, coat as red as the blood that—_

_—she screamed, they both did—_

_—I know what it felt like to shove a blade into your Empress—_

Corvo gritted his teeth, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes as the headache reached a crescendo, and spots of muddied shadow danced behind his eyelids like the smallest of candlelight. With a deep, calming breath, Corvo attempted to reign in the rage that made his limbs tremble with anticipation.

His hand, splayed and tense, curled into a white knuckled fist against the wood floor, crumpling the thick sheet of parchment paper in his palm in an attempt to keep the fragmented memories at bay. He glanced at the sketch in his fist, searching for any distraction, and stiffened as he caught sight of the image.

Colorful striped of crayon on parchment contrasted starkly with the paleness of his hand, and the drawl grey pallet of the room. Corvo sucked in a deep breath that left him coughing painfully through a ruined throat as he was struck by the familiarity of the picture still clenched in his fist.

Corvo hastily opened his hand, smoothing out the image with a pang of regret as he saw the deep creases that crisscrossed the child's drawing.

It was a familiar picture, one that made his heart stutter in alarm.

A man in a long blue coat with a sheathed sword strapped to his belt and a woman in formal wear with her hair twisted up in an exaggerated mess. A small girl in white laced their hands together in a line as she swung like a pendulum between them. A misshapen yellow heart hovered in the air above them and a rainbow crossed the entire page in great swaths of vivid color.

There was a distinct lack of red in the drawing.

Many minutes passed as Corvo gazed down at the drawing, Emily's drawing, of a happier time in their tiny family. His thoughts were a confusing whirl of emotion, anger laced deeply with grief and brief happiness. Seeing a flash of familiarity in this desolate world so far from home — _so far from her—_ hurt more than the poison that was purged from his tainted blood.

Corvo caught a flash of familiar writing in the corner of his eye as he ducked his head to escape from the image of his continued failure.

_He'd promised to keep her safe, now where was she, where had they taken her._

Snatching up another paper among the dozens that layered the filthy floor, Corvo scanned the hastily written message in a familiar scrawl. Dainty fingerprints and great smears dotted the message as if Emily didn't know how to handle charcoal instead of the high class ink she was used to, even though she used to splatter the paper with freckles every time she practiced the elegant penmanship of the aristocracy. It almost startled a small smile out of Corvo, although the muscles in his face twinged as they strained oddly _._

_Dear Everard,_

_You can have these. I do not think they will let me keep them._

_Thank you for drawing with me. Tell Scarlett I said thank you for letting me braid her hair, and she better keep it long! I'll know if she cuts it!_

_Peregrine is weird, but he's there to be the funny part of Thomas, right? I bet if Thomas and Scarlett were left alone it would get really boring. Tell them I said goodbye._

_Promise to teach me how to draw like you next time?_

_Love, Emily_

Corvo flipped the paper over to reveal a sketch of Emily standing over a woman in a Whaler's uniform and braiding her hair. The charcoal was smudged but the easy companionship and Emily's bright talkative attitude was still captured to the smallest detail, even as the stain and grime on her white clothes attested to her hardship.

She must have been in Daud's custody for sometime before she was handed off to the Lord Regent's men, before The Pendleton Twins imprisoned her in the Golden Cat. But Emily never mentioned it. This boy, Everard, and the names she mentioned, Thomas, Peregrine, Scarlett, all are Daud's assassins, they imprisoned her. What had he don—

The Heart beat once, fracturing Corvo's single minded concentration, and one of his hands clenched at the Outsider _blessed_ organ through the tattered lapels of the great coat that was once the symbol of his honored position.

" _He was a friend to her when she needed it most."_ The Heart spoke softly.

Corvo stood, ignoring the deep seated ache as his bone protested the movement with a practiced air from the days after intense training. He gazed down fondly at Emily's drawing one last time before folding it carefully and reverently tucking it into his breast pocket.

Stepping toward the softly snoring boy, Corvo deftly searched the pockets of his coat and relieved Everard of his extra crossbow bolts, grenades, sleep darts, and the short assassin's blade his belt.

His new found frugality briefly warred with his reluctance to steal from a assassin boy who befriended Emily, but after a moment of hesitation, Corvo sighed and returned the purse to the boy's belt. It was a mere ten coin anyway, he'd found better in the bathrooms of the Boyle Estate.

It was easy, a simple matter, to forget the boy had been one of Daud's men that conspired and helped kill Jessamine.

Slipping his arms beneath the boy's knees and shoulders, Corvo carried him to the bed and dropped him on top of the rumpled sheets that smelled of mold and dust. As an afterthought, Corvo collected the scatter sketches on loose paper and idly marveled at the skill needed to capture not only the image, but the emotion and attitude of the subjects.

Most of the sketches were of The Whalers, fellow assassins, captured in the moments between jobs. A man with light colored hair that fell into his eyes and a self-satisfied grin had an arm draped loosely around another Whaler, mask still strapped to his face, with his arms crossed, but Corvo could see in the tilt of his head and the loose set of his shoulders that the other assassin was amused and attempting to act professional.

Another sketch revealed a scarred man, older than Corvo by a handful of years, with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth as he gestured and spoke sternly to someone off the edge of the page; a tall woman had a hand on his shoulder and hid an exasperated smile. The next image showed two identical young men standing close to each other in silence, one was crouched with his hand on the belly of a wolfhound, scratching its sweet spot that made the great beast melt into his touch, the other stood stiffly next to him, but seemed to relish in the exchange of a brief smile and a raise of an eyebrow.

Corvo flipped to the next page, slowly adding to the collection of loose-leaf sketches in his arms, reluctantly curious to peer into a snapshot of the lifestyle and relationships between the men who were contracted to kill the Empress.

A woman, young and stunning, the same one from the sketch of Emily, sat atop a tall bookshelf with a knee pulled to her chest and a well-worn book of children's tales in her hands. Another sketch with a group of children, filthy and starving, gathered around the same woman as she read from the same book of children's tales and glared at the sketch artist with the promise of retribution. Corvo flipped to the next sketch. A young man with short dark hair sitting at the edge of a rooftop, faced away from the artist, mask held loosely in hand as he gazed accusingly at the wavering reflection of the moon in the filthy river water.

It was a curious thing, being able to see the humanity and kinship of the assassins behind their emotionless whaling masks. It was odd, and it left a bitter taste on Corvo's tongue.

Daud met Corvo's gaze from the black and white impression on the paper. Eyes narrowed and self-assured, mouth tipped into a scowl, the rugged facial scars enhanced the man's aura of danger and intimidation.

Corvo swallowed back the bile and rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He should have stopped right there, let the rage drown his sense of self; he should have blinked out the open window with nothing but vengeance and the thought of Emily fueling his steps. But through some twisted sense of morbid curiosity, some innate interest to witness the man — _the murderer, assassin—_ that destroyed his life, Corvo flipped to the next sketch.

Daud sat crosslegged on the ground with a whetstone and assassin's blade in hand before two Whalers in light grey; he pointed at the dull edge as he showed them how to care for their equipment. Another sketch, another moment, Daud offered a pack of smokes in seemingly reluctant defeat to the young man with short dark hair, a disgruntled expression marring his scarred face into an exasperated scowl; the young man took the pack with a small smile and grace toward his superior.

A stern Daud with the ever-present scowl visited the man with light colored hair in the infirmary, the bandages that crossed his chest were beaded with dark blots as he he lay prone on a cot. The injured man had a broken expression as he gazed down at the book Daud offered him, the Young Prince of Tyvia, as entertainment during his bed rest. The dark haired young man stood at the foot of his bed smirked lightly at his expression, even as his posture and crossed arms revealed how irritated he was at the injured man.

Another drawing, this one lined with dark crosshatching, a stark contrast to the light tentative strokes from before, as if the artist had been angry and shaking as they drew it. The boy, Everard, crouched defensively in the hallway of a rich estate, the ill-fitting finery of his clothing was lost beneath the layers of grime and filth and starvation, the pack at his side was full to bursting with stolen elixir and food as he pointed a knife toward Daud. A hand was held out, offering, asking, the outsider's mark shone vividly through the leather, illuminating an odd softness in Daud's eyes and sending the room behind Everard into shadow.

Corvo's teeth clenched, the molars creaking and grinding in protest, as tight breath hissed through them.

Daud gazed up at the shattered statue of Jessamine Kaldwin, blood stained sword held up as he knelt in fealty, a cesspit of rats and rotten corpses and mud soaking his coat. Emily was standing above him, clothed in white that shone like a beacon in the darkness. She was reaching forward, toward the man who _murdered_ her mother, hand outstretched to give the order to behead, to accuse of treason, to—

Corvo tore his eyes from the page, shoving the loose leaf sketches back into the boy's book. His head pounded, his muscles ached and shook from exhausting, and his vision randomly wavered and grew blurry, but he pushed the worldly irritants away to focus on his mission, his reason for existence.

Emily was in the hands of the Loyalists.

 _"She is human, just as you are. She hates, and loves, and forgives."_ The Heart whispered, stilling the turmoil whirling in Corvo's soul.

Corvo gently cradled the heart, the conglomerate of once living muscle and clockwork heavy in his hand beat a gentle tattoo against his palm, a reminder, perhaps, of what he should remember.

With barely a passing thought of what lay ahead of him, Corvo blinked out the open window and into the grey reality of Dunwall.

* * *

The Heart spoke often, voice unhindered despite being tucked deep in the recesses of the coat, as Corvo blinked through the Rudshore District, retrieving his tools and items he'd unfortunately grown dependent upon with little difficulty. He'd relished in the numbness that overcame his shaking limbs, the renewed burst of energy, once he'd drunk Sokolov's Elixir and Piero's Remedy. The Heart offered commentary and detailed information when it had been reticent and silent before.

 _"Sometimes she goes deep into the sewers systems and sings to herself. She has a beautiful voice."_ The Heart breathed sadly when Corvo choked out a sentry along the edge of the roof, carefully setting _her_ body out of immediate sight.

 _"The strictures were just words to these twin boys, a means to an end, just as Daud's mark is a means to remain together. They are happier now, beneath Daud's command, than they have ever been."_ Corvo flinched as The Heart spoke, shifting a stone beneath his feet and drawing the attention of the two Whalers and their Wolfhound. As she continued to speak, almost smugly, Corvo blinked behind one to choke out, shooting a sleep dart in the chest of the other, and possessed the Wolfhound in rapid succession. He vanished from the scene in seconds, skirting around a couple patrolling assassins in the guise of a vicious beast.

As he snuck around another patrol, patiently circling around to the Commerce Building that held a deteriorated effigy of Jessamine, the Heart spoke again.

 _"She has lived a hard life, from the slums of Tyvia to the disguise of a male sailor on a whaling ship to a poor baker girl. She loves a man, a close friend who is blind to her affections, and has accepted that a relationship will never be. She does not want to ruin the trust and friendship between them by confessing her love."_ The Heart sounded almost wistful, as if enamored by the romance between the two assassins.

Corvo needed to escape through the sewers as cleanly as possible if he wanted to follow _The Loyalists_ trail without any pursuers, even if stealth wasn't his strong suit, and any distraction could spell complete failure. Corvo squeezed The Heart gently in reprimand, sighing in strikingly familiar exasperation.

Jessamine was always a bit of a gossip.

* * *

_"Paid assassin. Daud. The last thing the… Empress felt was his blade."_

And there was the man himself, still wearing the same red coat, as if always drenched in the blood of his victims. It was an obvious power play and reminder of his other-worldly capabilities that had no subtlety in actual subterfuge. Corvo could almost see the color bleed across the floor, dripping from the blade on his belt, and spreading like veins into the silhouette that was seared into his mind.

_"No! There is no turning back from the path he has chosen."_

Daud killed her.

A blade in the gut, screaming Corvo's name as he was helpless to watch, eyes fluttering shut as her daughter begged for her. Six months fighting the political battle of thinly-veiled words for foreign aid, Corvo returned to his family being obliterated before his eyes.

Crouched above the man, hidden with a clever bone charm in the shadows of a bookshelf, belt lined with countless tools of death, Corvo watched the man. A mask of torment concealed the humanity beneath, the mark of the Outside glowed dimly in anticipation for a fascinating event, and Corvo could not bring himself to act. Although his hands shook, his breath stuttered unevenly, and adrenaline made the world glow through the darkness, he did not act.

He felt like a young novice again, holding a sword for the first time, thrust into a battle he was not expected to survive.

His hand, shaking minutely from nerves, found the Heart warm and comforting in his palm. The gears glowed, whirling rapidly, angrily, as it beat harshly in his palm, as if attempting to jostle itself from his grip.

She spoke to him, when he refused to trust himself to ask.

_"Why have you brought me here? Am I meant to forgive this man for what he did?"_

Jessamine was human, she hated and loved and didn't forgive.

Corvo had the ability to blink behind the man, pickpocket the key in one moment and vanish in the next, already down the sewers and in pursuit of the Loyalists by the time Daud realized what occurred. But his hands shook, his fingers itched, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his blade.

He could not walk away.

In a swift motion, the outsider's mark glowing in anticipation, Corvo blinked behind the Whaler guard on the opposite end of the room, kicking the back of his knees and shooting a dart into his neck as he buckled.

Daud didn't startle as the body hit the floor.

He took a single drag from the cigarette, closing his eyes in acceptance for a moment, before drawing his blade in preparation. With the twin Outsider's mark shining brightly through his glove, Daud froze time just as a handful of assassins transversed into the room, the world bled color to greyscale and sound distorted oddly.

"And now we fight the duel that no two others could fight," Daud spoke aloud, gravelly voice piercing through the distortion of the void, "against the ticking of the clock."

Gritting his teeth, face inscrutable beneath the face of death, Corvo rushed forward with his blade raised.

* * *

"Why do you fight?" Daud barked harshly, slashing his blade downward and jumping back as Corvo blocked.

"For the men who poisoned you and left you to die?"

Corvo drew his pistol, aiming and firing within a second, but Daud froze time one more and the bullet hovered useless in the air between them.

Daud frowned heavily, scowling at Corvo as Daud dodged and blocked another hasty strike. He had no creativity in using his Mark, all the abilities at his fingertips and he depends upon the tools of lesser men to kill the man who destroyed his life. Corvo was no assassin, he was new to the mark, but Daud expected more of a challenge.

How unfortunate.

"For your dead Empress?" Daud goaded, the words thick and metallic in his throat. But he needed to do this, he needed one last thing from Corvo.

"Go on! Strike as if you mean it! You watched me kill her."

The man possessed by vengeance behind the mask, seemed to wheeze and growl in a single breath. He raised a hand, Outsider's mark blazing, and opened a void beneath Daud's feet that summoned a dozens of man-eating plague rats that nipped and snarled, unhindered by the halt of time.

As one climbed up his pant leg, Daud quickly transversed away as a cold sense of dread settled in his gut, outside the office and to the ruined building across the walkway. Slicing the rabid thing quickly before it could rip into his leg, Daud quickly downed a vial of Piero's Spiritual Remedy to refill his waning mana with a grimace. He hated rats.

Daud thought it ironic that the man whose world fell apart by the introduction of the bane of Pandyssia within Dunwall would have the man-eating rats at his command.

The time vacuum fell and Thomas appeared in a bloom of shadows at his shoulder, a momentary distraction, just as Corvo rounded the corner and blinked in front of Daud in the next instant. The strike hit, slicing deeply from his shoulder downward in a line of fire.

Daud smiled grimly. Looks like Corvo was finally getting into it.

"Daud!" Thomas lunged forward, drawing and raising his own blade to block the next heavy strike from Corvo. The blow rocked the assassin back, arms shaking under the strain of locking the man's blade at a stalemate. The rattling, wheezing, ragged breath beneath the mask hissed inches from Thomas's own mask.

Peregrine appeared behind them both, gripping their shoulders and transversing them to a lower floor, breaking the stalemate and making Corvo stagger forward from the sudden lack of resistance. Corvo seemed to be the epitome of calm and deadly skill as he peered at the blood staining his blade in bland acknowledgement before flicking his wrist to clean the worst of the taint off.

Three more of Daud's men appeared between him and Corvo, blades drawn and crossbows aimed at the assailant that threatened their master. Thomas and Peregrine stepped forward, ready to bark commands at the assassins, to give the order to attack and kill.

Daud pulled his hand away from the wound, glove drenched in blood, but he felt little besides the fear and uncertainty that clenching in his gut as if he was a novice, a boy again. He was gripped with the staggering certainty that he didn't want these men to perish for him.

Daud had enough.

"Do not interfere! This is my fight!"

He raised his hand, a sickening glow emitting brightly as he activate the mark, feeling the drain of mana.

"Daud! Sto—" Thomas said desperately reached forward. His hand froze inches from Daud's own. His men, his assassins, the people he's plucked from the streets and gifted with the Outsider's curse froze still as stone between Daud and his retribution.

Corvo hadn't moved to attack the other Whalers, hadn't raised the blade to strike down the fodder between him and his target.

How considerate.

"They mean nothing. I am the one who shoved a blade in your Empress and stole her daughter from you." Daud growled, bringing Attano's attention back to him. Daud transversed behind Corvo, a cloud of shadows marking his approach as he struck, slicing easily through Corvo's ragged coat and scrapping against his rib cage.

Corvo staggered backward, caught off guard, and blinked out of range of the next strike. The sheer amount of Outsider magic being tossed around like flowers at a wedding must have brought much attention to their match. No doubt the black-eyed bastard was watching with no small amount glee; the very thought brought a grimace to Daud's face.

They exchanged strikes, heavy and quick, parried and drawing blood. Despite the price on the line, Daud found himself exhilarated with the fight. What Corvo lacked in creativity with his Mark, he made up for with hard earned skill in sword play and a quick hand with his crossbow. Daud was an assassin, not a swordsman, but crossing blades with an expert in the craft made his blood rush in excitement and adrenaline, even as blood seeped down his hairline and into his eyes.

Daud found he wouldn't mind falling beneath the bite of this man's blade.

Corvo seemed the loath the Whaler's interference as much as Daud did, he would renew the time stasis the moment it fell if Daud hadn't. Growing frustrated at the stalemate that left them both bloody and furious, Corvo lashed out, the _brand_ flashing yellow and blue as he activate another ability.

Corvo vanished, darkness and the violet glow of the void consumed the man in an instant. Daud spun around, searching for another lunge and strike from a blind spot, another wave of rats to destroy, but he saw nothing. In the time stasis, everything was still.

Then he felt it, a heavy weight suppressing his thoughts and emotions, a malignant creature attempting to control his body. So furious with little hope to speak of, consumed by a vile concoction of grief and anger, the creature attempted to wrestle freewill from Daud.

" _Nice try, Corvo,"_ Daud thought viciously, a sickening feeling of surprise resounding loudly from the parasite in his head.

_"But my mind is the last place you want to be."_

With that, Daud pushed the man out of his mind, ripping apart the dark tendrils that had latched onto his motor control; he felt a odd emptiness overwhelm him as Corvo collapse to his knees across the room where he had retreated. Daud raised his fist, and _pulled_ Corvo forward, savagely reminding him of being pinned and helpless to stop what had occurred before his eyes.

Corvo struggled in his supernatural grip, fumbling for an escape.

One last push.

"This is the man that protected the Empress? No wonder she died." Daud sneered.

And that is all that was needed.

Corvo _screamed._ An inhuman, animalistic noise that rent from his damage throat and through the hissing distortion of death's mask and the stasis of time between them. He blinked out of Daud's hold, appearing inches from his face, the ragged breath of the consumed man hissed menacingly through the metal monstrosity.

Daud blinked the blood out of his eyes, and Corvo struck. Slicing deeply into the side of his stomach as if to eviscerate him to the spine.

Daud transversed, not caring where he landed. He leaned heavily against the crumbling wall with a hand pressed to his stomach and a growing pool of blood beneath him. The damaged statue of the Empress stood at attention behind him, and Daud was certain he was dying.

Outsider's eyes, the man was a beast.

Daud almost sighed. It was time.

Corvo stepped in front of his, the clack of his boots resounded loudly in the strange silence of stasis. Daud knelt in acknowledged defeat, the energy and fight drained quickly as he dropped his bloodied sword, his hands too weak and slick to grip the hilt any longer.

"I have one more surprise for you. I ask for my life." Daud said quietly, a little nod of concession to how ridiculous it sounded, especially to the man whom he had ruined so completely.

The extended stasis dropped, color leeched back into the world and sound penetrated loudly though the rushing of blood.

"Daud!" Thomas shouted, transversing forward in furious desperation with his blade raised to strike down the effigy of death that loomed over his master. Corvo easily parried the telegraphed strike, knocking the man back as the other assassins converged to protect their master, their _friend_.

"Thomas," Daud barked, "Do not interfere!"

Corvo ignored them, rushing forward until he was inches from Daud, and rested his blade harshly against his neck in warning. The Whalers halted, tense and ready, waiting for a command of action from Thomas or for enemy movement.

Waving a hand carelessly, Corvo froze time, and Daud was almost thankful for the privacy. He was not proud of what he had done, and he is not proud of what he was about to do.

A single word hissed through the mangled mask, "why."

"When I killed your Empress and took her daughter, something broke inside me." Daud said, swallowing heavily around the stained blade with difficulty, "Now, I see the design on the back of your hand, the Mark of the Outsider himself, and I remember all I've done."

_I've sunk Dunwall into the river mud._

_I've destroyed the city's last hope of survival._

_I've capitalized on murder and exploited betrayal for too long._

_And it's finally come full circle._

_I've created the apparatus of my own demise._

Corvo remained inscrutable beneath that damnable mask.

He wasn't doing this for himself, if he had his way, Daud would fall beneath the blade with a grimace and satisfaction from a good fight. He was doing this for Thomas, Peregrine, Everard, and all the Whalers. He had to try, for their sake. They had made it clear they would not let him fall quietly into the void.

"The years of waiting for the right moment to step forward from an alley and drive a knife between the ribs of some noble." Daud grimaced, pushing away the searing burn of his wounds, as he continued to speak. "All that money exchanging hands, from one rich bastard or another. Killing for one of them one year, then being paid to kill him in return the next."

"I remember bending at the shrines, listening as the Outsider whispered that I was going to change things, that I was somehow important."

The black-eyed bastard, he'd grown to resent his ever-watchful gaze, his disinterested judgement. To be under the god's scrutiny was both a blessing that came with a great boon and a curse that lasted a lifetime.

Daud doubted that Corvo wanted to hear him speak, wanted to know his regrets and life story, but Daud needed this. Perhaps a twisted sense of satisfaction at seeing Daud squirm and kneel stilled the blade at his neck; perhaps Corvo truly wanted to know.

"It felt good, made me believe I was powerful."

He was high on power for so many years, believing himself infallible and above human weakness with the undivided attention of a god. With the design on his hand, and the power he bestowed upon others, Daud was no longer the little Serkonan boy with quick hands. Except he was, Daud stole and killed, except he was the savage tool bought by the aristocrats instead of doing the act for his own survival.

"But what have I accomplished? More than you have, or much less? I want nothing more than to leave this city. And fade from the memory of those who reside here."

Daud had felt his age, an ache in his bones, a slowness in his strikes.

"I've had enough killing."

He was tired of dealing in death.

"So my life is in your hands."

Gazing into the face of death, at the creature he had molded with his actions, and feeling the crumbling city beneath his feet, Daud waited for his judgement, for his retribution.

"Make your choice."

* * *

With the blade against Daud's neck pressed deeper into the delicate flesh as Corvo leaned forward, they breathed the same air.

Daud spoke of the Outsider, a life not worth living any longer, and a deep seated regret that would accept whatever punishment Corvo chose. The greyscale of halted time and the strangely muffled noise did not distract Corvo from the words the killer spoke as he humbly asked for his life, even though he'd deprived many others of their own.

How many others had knelt before this man, this _assassin_ , and begged for their life? How many had he laughed at, sneered at, and beheaded without allowing them to finish pleading?

But it was not Corvo's place to judge Daud on his lifestyle or his den of assassins he'd gathered around himself as he exploited the political and personal competitiveness of the aristocracy. Corvo was before Daud with a blade to his neck, resentment stilling the minute shakes of his hand, for the death of one women.

Daud did not beg, he confessed.

Corvo let him speak.

The effigy of the woman Corvo had held dear gazed off into the distance behind the bleeding man who kneeled at his mercy, averting her gaze from them; she would not judge Corvo for the actions he would take today.

Corvo was human, he loved and hated and refused to forgive.

There was so much hatred, an abyss that threatened to swallow the shattered fragments of a man still the symbol of good in a child's eyes. It grew stronger during the months within Coldridge; his fate, the fate of Emily, lay uncertain in the hands of their enemies. His muscles would jitter restlessly, his fingers would itch for a gun or a sword, anything to rend his enemies limb from limb, to see the life flee from their wild eyes. He wanted nothing more than to feel the scraping of bone as he plunged his blade into the traitor's chest.

But in a child's eyes, in Emily's innocent — _but sharp and knowing—_ eyes, he was righteous and the epitome of everything good in the world.

It would be a… pyrrhic victory to have come so far with few deaths staining his hands just to rampage through the assassins and rend them to pieces. Perhaps, this man had even saved Corvo, if the oddly fragmented memories of a wraith wrapped in starlight and being force fed an antidote could be held as truth. For what reason, Corvo didn't know, he might have an inkling, but he didn't _want_ to know.

Regardless, this was still the man who killed her, who thrust a blade in his Empress.

It would be child's play to push a little harder, to pull the blade to the side in a single steady mention, and watch emotionlessly as blood poured from the assassin's throat and the cold grip of death glazed over his eyes.

Corvo's hands shook with resisting the urge, with refusing to succumb to the bloodlust that dimmed his vision.

Emily had made _friends_ in her short tenure with the assassins. How, Corvo had no idea; it must be the child's gift to find strength in calamity and friends in murderers. Despite the rage and fire that consumed him at Daud's taunts, Corvo had tried his best to spare the assassins, although the one named Thomas fought admirably to save his master's life.

What fueled such devotion to a man such as Daud? The sketches, the letter from Emily, The Heart's secrets, it all pointed to trust and friendship among assassins that Daud had bound together with discipline and black magic. Daud _protected_ them.

" _His hands do violence. But there is a different dream in his heart."_ The Heart whispered unbidden.

Corvo spoke lowly, voice devoid of the turmoil of emotion, "I cannot forgive you."

Was he making the right choice?

A steady stream of slick blood flowed down Corvo's blade as he awaited an answer. Daud closed his eyes, weary, defeated, the picture of guilt and defeat and acceptance, the scars etched deeply on his face threw the odd expression in sharp relief as he swallowed heavily.

"I cannot forgive myself."

Corvo withdraws his sword, folding it with a twist and clipping it to his belt.

"If I see your face again, I may not make the same decision." Corvo stated coldly, his voice steel and certain.

"And you choose mercy. Extraordinary." Daud said, a small hint of wonder gracing his gravely tones.

Corvo was not a merciful man, he was not kind, and as with the others the had been damned to a fate worse than death; he wondered how Daud will continue to live with that crushing regret. If the weight would continue to destroy the man, or if he could move passed the addicting deals of coin and blood.

As he blinked back to the office, retrieving the key to the sewers, time continued. The Whalers were shouting, gathering around the gravely wounded Daud who yet still lived; Thomas, perhaps, barked orders at the others to gather medical supplies, even as one of the others lay the older man down to piece him together. They were a loud bunch of assassins.

Daud had his Whalers just as Corvo had Emily.

They would both live through this.

 _"The assassin who killed your Empress, kidnapped your daughter for months in captivity, and toppled the delicate balance of an Empire, Daud, was at your mercy, baring his throat like an old dog ready to be put down, and, yet, you let him go."_ The Outsider smiled, an odd expression that twisted his features into something sinister and yet wondrously childlike.

_"How you continue to fascinate me, my dear Corvo."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's finally here! And twice as long, too! I had such a hard time finishing this, so sorry for the (long) delay. I've had half this chapter done for months, but the ending just never came together how I imagined it. Even now, I'm not sure if it all fits together, since I'm in a different mindset now than from when I started. Hopefully it didn't affect the characters and writing style too much. Although the great themes I had established kind of fell apart since I didn't make thematic notes. I may come back later to smooth it out, but I don't want to hold onto it any longer and risk never posting. 
> 
> If you liked the whalers, the sketches, and the letter Emily wrote; that was actually a whole chapter I was going to add, but was cut due to irrelevance. I posted it as Listen to the Echo, part 3 of Waiting for a Reply series. Also a side-story with Daud and Thomas will be posted next week. 
> 
> The reviews really boosted my inspiration to finally conclude this story, so thank you to all who've read and reviewed. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think. Comments and critiques are appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> Rezz


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